


and the secret garden bloomed and bloomed

by farouche (AnonymousSinner)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Biting, Blow Jobs, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hickies, I just wanted nice things, Laughter During Sex, Light Dom/sub, Like that's all this is, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Rated E for later chapters, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, as in together, author knows nothing about fashion and has limited knowledge about flower shops, except not really, it's just a good wholesome time, like if you squint and really want to find it, like the most angst there is is they both briefly discuss shitty parenting, like very light, literally there is no angst here, markus works for a fashion company, please be nice to me, simon and daniel own a flowershop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-08-23 14:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSinner/pseuds/farouche
Summary: He stops. Takes in the fresh coat of green paint on the door, partially hidden by the thick ivy that covers the side of the shop and spills over the wood trim around the entrance, trailing all the way down to the small stone step in front of it. Looks at the window frame that juts out from the old stone walls, how the shop curves around the corner and sits squint, accommodating the steepness of the hill. The door is closed to keep in the cold, but Markus can see a soft golden light through the window, can see movement through flowers and succulents neatly stacked just inside the display. He ducks his head, peers through the greenery, and at the back he catches a quick flash of blonde hair.Markus is looking for inspiration surrounding flowers. He finds Simon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of this beautiful [moodboard](http://jjellymint.tumblr.com/post/177129152355/farouchedoncjevie-jjellymint-markus-new).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 18/02/19: GUESS WHAT LADS. WE NOW HAVE FANART FOR THIS FIC. I'm genuinely in tears and ive been meaning to link to this for AGES but i've been swamped. Anyways [ HERE](http://ceeridwen99.tumblr.com/post/182583962737/im-rusty-as-hell-in-this-style-so-forgive-me) is a BEAUTIFUL piece by Ceeridwen (shown below)and [ HERE](http://ceeridwen99.tumblr.com/post/182806891897/for-farouchedoncjevie-are-you-planning-on?fbclid=IwAR3mJe9FhysBS7qURh-rgyRnk-bWweTk9SV7arPBXEmEGKr6I4n0ImqL5uY) is AN EQUALLY AS BEAUTIFUL PIECE from them that I'm gonna be adding in the relevant chapter bECAUSE THEY REALLY JUST WENT AHEAD AND ILLUSTRATED MY FAVORITE SCENE HUH. THEY JUST WENT AHEAD AND DID THAT. Anyways im so emo and i love them so much so if you have tumblr BLEASE reblog and show them some love because they deserve it!!

 

> _"I've seen the paths that your eyes wander down,_  
>  _I want to come too,_  
>  _[I think that possibly, maybe, I'm falling for you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kLfjhSmvFjM)"_

 

  
There are several different ways Markus likes to spend his Saturday mornings.

He likes to read, so sometimes he’ll grab a book at random from the huge bookcase that takes up the entire right side of the living room and curl up in the corner of the couch until Carl wakes up.

Other times, if Carl’s already up but not in the mood for breakfast yet, he’ll sit at the old piano in the corner and play, softly tinkering at the keys and making up silly little melodies until Carl says something about coffee and those famous scrambled eggs of his.

Occasionally, he might be willing to go for a short walk. Usually this is in the Summer, when the sun has already risen and the town is still quiet and the air only just starting to warm up, but he can be convinced to leave the house in the Winter, if only to see how the early morning frost covers the last remaining leaves and patches of grass.

There are more options, of course. He’s never been one to sleep in, but he’s not a picky individual – perfectly content to just sit and wait while the rest of the world wakes up. But he likes to start his weekends in a calm, relaxed sort of atmosphere, so he can spend his days off without the weight of stress on his shoulders. It’s a little thing, but he swears by it, and it’s one of the only things Markus could be considered selfish about.

But apparently, even this is too much to ask for.

“No, Mr. Chapman, I understand that, but I would like to know what exactly was discussed in the meeting. No one told me it was even happening, let alone that I was going to be given this assignment.”

His phone is on speaker, lies on the table as Markus glares at it like the offending item it is. Chapman’s nasally voice interrupts the otherwise peaceful silence of Carl’s home, the slight static of the call making him sound even more unbearable than usual.

“It’s not an assignment, really,” he drawls, “Consider it a project. I just nominated you spontaneously – you did such a good job with the set for the Fall photoshoot last year, I thought this would be right up your alley.”

“No, I – Thank you,” Markus says, pinching the bridge of his nose and briefly squeezing his eyes shut, “I’m glad you liked it, but I had significantly more time to prepare for that. The Gala is in less than three months, and I have no clear idea of what I’m -”

“You’re _creative_ ,” interrupts Chapman, emphasising the word as though it’s the solution to all the world’s problems, “This is where you can use your originality! Well, within reason. Don’t scare off the sponsors, but Kamski will be there, so make sure to impress. You paint, right?”

“Yes, but Sir -”

“Perfect! There’s this wall at the venue we’re thinking – well, you’ll see the pictures, but I was thinking you could frame some paintings there, as a sort of hint towards the theme for the rest of the evening.”

“Sir, with all due respect,” Markus starts, somewhat desperately, “There’s no way I can finish several paintings and come up with a theme and design the set for this thing and manage to stay on top of all my other work, it’s -”

“Of course not, Heaven forbid!” Chapman laughs, and it’s braying. Markus’s teeth clench of their own accord. “All your other work will be taken care of – right now this is your only project, so just focus on that. Forget about the rest; that’s why we have interns.”

“But what about the budget? CL can’t possibly have the funds for -”

“Oh nothing too extravagant, Markus,” Chapman says, “Think fancy High School production. There will only be around fifty to a hundred people, and the venue isn’t big enough for a proper runway. We’re only showing a select few items of our new Spring collection, so just have a few pieces for the set, a small pathway for the models to walk down – it’s amazing what you can do with projectors these days, you can have a background – the possibilities are endless. Just make it nice and Spring-esque. You know, flowers and the like.”

_Flowers and the like_. It’s the first Gala that CL Fashion has ever organised, the first major event Markus is somewhat in charge of, and the only direction he’s been given so far is _flowers and the like_. To think he’d called Chapman for clarification.

It was Perkins, who told him originally. Markus had just pushed the button to call the elevator when his phone buzzed with the message that he was to see him in his office. Most of the lights at people’s desks had been off – everyone with any semblance of self-preservation had gone home hours ago. The only people left were slackers with deadlines, Perkins because he’s the kind of asshole boss that likes to wait until the last second before calling employees to his office, and Markus, because he’s an idiot who opens messages he doesn’t want to read and sends read receipts to people he doesn’t want to see.

“ _You’re in charge of aesthetics for the Spring Gala we’re having at the end of April_ ,” is what Perkins said, before Markus even had time to knock on his door. He hadn’t even looked up at him, just kept scrolling down whatever website he’d been looking at, the sound of his finger on the mouse obnoxiously loud.

“ _I’m sorry?_ ”

A useless question, because Markus had heard him well enough, but he’d been momentarily struck dumb. In his defence, it had been nearing 9 p.m, and he’d been well past the point of tired.

“ _That’s all I called you in here to tell you_ ,” Perkins had said flatly, finally deigning to glance his way, “ _I’m assuming this isn’t beyond your qualifications_.”

“ _It’s not_ ,” Markus had said, “ _I was just wondering exactly what is expected of me_?”

Perkins had sighed in a way that was unreasonably exasperated for what Markus thought was a pretty fair question, but Perkins is a dick.

“ _The theme_ ,” he’d told him impatiently, “ _We need a theme, and from that theme, we need decorations. Your job is to use your artist degree to come up with something that the guests at the Gala will like. Something with flowers, we’d said_.”

“ _Flowers_ ,” Markus had repeated dumbly, and Perkins looked at him like he was the worst sort of idiot.

“ _Yes. Clear?_ ”

And Markus had said yes, even though things were stupidly, frustratingly opaque. He could have kept bugging him, but Perkins is an asshole even on the best of days, and all Markus really wanted at that point was go home and drink several classes of Carl’s whiskey, so that’s what he’d done.

“Markus?” comes Chapman’s voice, and Markus sucks at his teeth, “Are we done? I need to get back to my wife, she’s saying something about potato salad.”

“That’s fine,” Markus lies, “I’ll figure it out.”

“Of course you will,” Chapman says happily, “I believe in you, son. Alright, bye then.”

Chapman hangs up. Markus scowls at the phone.

It’s not that he’s not grateful, per se. There’s only so much a guy without any qualifications in fashion can expect to do at a fashion company, and he’d only gotten in because he’d graduated Summa Cum Laude and Carl knew the CEO and put in a good word for him. Granted, it’s still a relatively small company, and he’s made a pretty secure place for himself with his artistic abilities by coming up with colour schemes and photoshoot ideas and whatnot, but it’s not exactly what he _wants_. He’s been gagging for a challenge, something that would let him show his true potential, that could give him proper exposure. He just hadn’t expected it to be thrown at him completely out of the blue with no further details. Well, except for _flowers_.

“Flowers for spring,” Markus mutters, “Groundbreaking.”

“Jesus, what’s with the face?”

Carl pushes his wheelchair into the room, a curious smile already playing across weathered features. Markus sighs, stands up to help push him to his spot at the table, where his breakfast is already waiting.

“You should have called me to help you get out of bed,” he says, but Carl laughs dismissively, shakes his head.

“I’m not a vegetable yet,” he says, “Bacon and all?”

“Yes, though less salt than usual. Your doctor called last week and I got an earful.” Markus tries to sound stern, but he can’t help the fond smile that grows as Carl gives the plate a disgusted look.

“That woman will kill me with sheer misery before anything else does,” he mutters, stabbing his eggs with his fork, and Markus rolls his eyes as he sits down across from him.

“Have you taken your medicine?” he asks, and Carl shakes his head again, mouth full.

“Later,” he says, muffled, “These are amazing, Markus.”

“Thanks.” Markus leans back into his chair, lets Carl eat. The man looks over at him, grey eyes flitting over him and brow furrowing as he reads Markus like an open book.

“You’re stressed,” Carl notes, and Markus laughs softly.

“It’s nothing, Carl,” he says, “Just work.”

Carl hums, chews thoughtfully on his bacon. “You were always a pretty stressed student,” he allows, “But nowadays, you tend to leave work at work. What part of it made its way home with you?”

Carl Manfred had been a renowned art professor at Markus’s college for several decades, and had been nearing retirement when Markus started classes. From his first day in one of his lectures, Markus had never been able to hide anything from him. It’s why Carl allowed him to stay after class – he saw Markus’s genuine desire to learn from him, his very real enjoyment of sketching and sculpting and any other mediums Carl had the time to show him. His favourite had always been painting though, and learning from the man whose very paintings Markus would try to replicate as practice had been surreal. He’d poured his heart and soul into those lessons, had avidly listened and tried to commit every word Carl said to memory, because he figured one day Carl would grow tired of him.

But Carl once lived alone in his house up the hill, and behind the successful artist and beloved professor was a man who was unbelievably lonely. At first Markus had just visited him, had appreciated times spent drinking tea on the small terrace and moving past the status of student to something akin to a friend, but then he graduated, and, well.

He’d had nowhere to go. No plans set in stone, no family to return to, most of his friends gone to search for brighter things in far-off places that Markus didn’t feel drawn to. What he felt drawn to was _this_ , the small town just an hour away from the city, the secluded house surrounded by trees and plants that needed tending, and the man who was the closest thing he’d ever really had to a father. So Carl had offered, and Markus had stayed.

There’s no point in hiding anything from him. They’ve fallen into a rhythm together, and when something’s off, Carl always knows.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Markus says tiredly, “Just a new project that’s more than I’m used to. Not sure where to start.”

“Inspiration is sometimes tough to find.” Carl puts down his fork, stretches his arms over his head. “That’s why I used to go on so many walks, before this damn chair. There’s only so much muse you can get from staring at the kitchen tiles.”

“A walk sounds good,” Markus says, smiling, “I need to pick up some things in town anyway. I’ll go after I give you your medicine.”

“Don’t bother,” Carl says flatly, fingers tightening ever so slightly on the armrests of his chair, “The needle can wait – worst case scenario I die.”

“Carl.” Markus’s tone is firm, dragging his name out into a warning. Carl glares at him, but there’s a fondness there that Markus catches easily. He raises an eyebrow at him. Carl folds.

“Go and get the damn thing, then,” he mutters, and Markus stifles a smug grin as he gets to his feet.

* * *

The town Markus lives in is a small one. It’s not so small that it’s unbearable; they have a decent sized mall, a cinema, and everything else you need to ensure you’re not bored out of your mind. But it’s small enough that Markus knows it like the back of his hand, knows all the secret winding pathways in the park, knows which shops to avoid and which places are the best to eat at. He’s lived here for three years, has long since picked out his favourite spots to sit and sketch, has long since memorised the faces of all the servers at his favourite local coffee shop, has made every part of it seem familiar, seem like home.

It probably doesn’t say much in favour of his observational skills then, when he’s walking back home after buying new paints and groceries, that he’s never once noticed the little flower shop right at the bottom of the hill he’s walked up so many times before.

He stops. Takes in the fresh coat of green paint on the door, partially hidden by the thick ivy that covers the side of the shop and spills over the wood trim around the entrance, trailing all the way down to the small stone step in front of it. Looks at the window frame that juts out from the old stone walls, how the shop curves around the corner and sits squint, accommodating the steepness of the hill. Golden, cursive letters have been meticulously painted on the wood over the display window, and a chalk board sits out front next to the small number of plants that are able to survive the cold weather.

_La Foire aux Pétales_. It’s written prettily both in the cursive and on the board, accompanying more hastily scribbled and faded opening times. The door is closed to keep in the cold, but Markus can see a soft golden light through the window, can see movement through flowers and succulents neatly stacked just inside the display. He ducks his head, peers through the greenery, and at the back he catches a quick flash of blonde hair.

Markus steps inside without really thinking about it, the sudden warmth soothing skin nipped by the cold outside air. He breathes in deep, lungs filling with the sweet scent of flowers and the light smoke of incense.

“Uh, we’re just closing up.”

Blonde hair comes into focus, a furrowed brow accompanying the almost brash voice. A man stands in front of him, sleeves rolled up and hands holding an empty bucket.

“Oh,” Markus says, “Sorry, I couldn’t quite read the times outside.”

“Yeah, things are a bit hectic,” says the man, “We’re only just starting up here and the board belonged to the old owners; haven’t gotten around the changing it yet, but I needed it out of the way.”

“Oh, that explains it,” Markus says, offering the man a smile, “I walk up this hill nearly every day but somehow never noticed this shop was here – how long have you been here for?”

“Just shy of a month,” says the man, raising an eyebrow, “But the old owners were here for six years.”

“Oh,” Markus says sheepishly, and then, “Did you change the paint outside? Maybe that’s why I never noticed this place before.”

“My brother did,” says the man, putting the bucket on a shelf next to some flowers. “He wanted something that stood out and he likes green, so.”

“It looks good.” Markus offers him another smile, points at the meticulously shelved plants and succulents, “Looks like you guys really know your craft.”

“Thanks?” It sounds almost like a question, the man awkwardly scratching the skin of his cheek. “Listen, I’d love to let you look around, but I really got to close up and -”

“Oh, right.” Markus hesitates, takes an awkward step back. “Sorry, I just – are you guys open tomorrow? I actually work for this fashion company, and I need to put something together involving flowers, and -”

“We’re open tomorrow,” the man interrupts, and Markus tries not to take the obvious impatience in his tone personally, “Well, technically. I won’t be here, so you’ll have to talk to my brother, but he can help you out. If you’ll excuse me – I actually have a plane to catch.”

“Sorry,” Markus says again, walking backwards out of the shop as the man shuts off the lights and grabs a bag that Markus hadn’t noticed was sitting by the door, “I’ll come back then, um -”

“Sure thing.” He takes the chalkboard and plants and sets them inside before going to lock the door, and Markus considers turning on his heel and discreetly fleeing up the hill, but then the man looks over his shoulder, gives him an apologetic smile that looks more like a grimace.

“Sorry, man,” he says, “I know this is shit customer service, but I really can’t wait. My brother will be more helpful tomorrow – shop’s open from ten till six in the evening.”

“It’s alright,” Markus says, smiles as the man visibly relaxes, “I know what it’s like – not gonna begrudge you for having places to be.”

“Thanks.” The man grins back, slings his bag over his shoulder. “My brother would have killed me if I’d scared you off. I’m Daniel, by the way. I promise I’m usually much more put together.”

“Markus,” Markus says, “I live up the hill and have a ridiculous work assignment involving flowers, so I’ll be coming back to your shop regardless of how scary you are. Which you’re not, by the way.”

Daniel laughs, short and brash, and shakes his head good-naturedly as he puts his keys in his bag. “Nice of you to say,” he says, and then his eyes widen as he looks down at his watch, “Fuck, okay, I really do have to go. Nice meeting you!” With that, he turns and leaves around the corner, practically jogging away from him. Markus bemusedly watches him leave, then looks back at the shop and smiles at the way a hanging plant’s vines twist around the shelving in the display. It’s small, quite simple, and this is a shit time of year for flowers, but it’s a _start_.

He walks home feeling considerably less stressed about the whole thing, and when Carl looks up from his book and smiles at him as he passes by, Markus finds he doesn’t have to force himself to smile back.

“Found inspiration?” Carl asks knowingly, and Markus hums, walks into the kitchen to set the groceries on the counter.

“Maybe,” he replies, “I’ll see if it’s still there tomorrow. I did find that cream cheese though!”

“See,” Carl calls back, “ _Walks_. They work wonders. How about you tell me about it over some tea and a cream cheese bagel?”

“Cholesterol, Carl,” Markus reminds him as he goes about packing the groceries away, “If you want a bagel we’ll have to make that vegetarian stir-fry tonight and push the pasta to tomorrow night.”

For a moment it’s quiet. Markus shuts the fridge, leans back to peer through the open kitchen door. Carl’s pushed his chair away from the TV so he can meet his eye from the living room, expression blank.

“Can we at least have tea,” he asks, “Or has the demon doctor prohibited any and all joy?”

Markus ducks back into to kitchen to hide his grin.

“We can have tea,” he allows, grabbing a mug from the cupboard as Carl makes a triumphant noise.

It’s probably a low blow, but Carl’s devastated look of pure betrayal when Markus wordlessly hands him a cup of tasteless herbal tea the doctor had suggested is entirely worth the lethal glare and silent treatment that follows.

 


	2. Chapter 2

> _There's a story at the bottom of this life and_  
>  It's not written out in black and white  
>  _And although it scares me, I think I might be  
> _ [_Pretty far behind_  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QrejEJIsU3I)

It’s snowing the next morning – the kind of pitiful snow that’s one degree away from being rain; uncomfortable and refusing to stick, melting the second it touches uncovered skin and running down exposed necks into unsuspecting coat collars. Markus manages to avoid that particular annoyance by donning a heavy scarf, but the cold wind still makes his eyes water as he walks down the hill, his steps slow to avoid slipping on wet cobblestone. It’s early, early enough that the street is silent, so his steps on the pavement are louder than usual, setting a gentle rhythm for the world to wake up to. He’d tried to stay home a while longer; spent a few hours out on the terrace with his sketchbook and a fresh cup of tea, watching the steam rise from red-painted porcelain, joining that of his slow, somewhat sleepy exhales. He’d waited for the sun to finish rising, waited for his tea to go cold, but eventually, when the bird he’d been drawing flew away from its spot on the old apple tree and his fingertips felt frozen, he’d given up on waiting.

It’s only just turned ten when he gets to the bottom of the hill, and he almost keeps walking, debates killing at least another half hour before trying the shop, but when he reaches it he’s met with a dim light already emanating from the display window, the green-painted door left ever so slightly ajar. The chalkboard from yesterday sits just next to the step, pressed up against the wall and only half protected by the dense ivy that climbs up the stone. But despite the rivulets of water left behind by the snow, it looks clean; all the old chalk that was there yesterday carefully wiped away. Markus glances at the display window, takes in the plants and succulents and how they look neater, somehow. Like someone wasn’t completely satisfied with how they were before and rearranged them with more care and perhaps a slight hint of passive aggressiveness.

The smell is the same when Markus steps inside, only the incense is slightly less strong. The heat has been turned up as well, and Markus’s hands go to his scarf, suddenly feeling far too warm. He’s just taken the heavy thing off when a door to what he assumes is the backroom opens, and Daniel steps out. He doesn’t seem to notice Markus standing there, goes behind the counter and fiddles with the flowers he’s holding in his hands.

“Oh, hi,” Markus says, eyebrows rising in surprise, and Daniel jumps, whirling around to face him with blue eyes wide behind the glasses that perch on his nose.

“Christ, you scared me,” he says, breathless, shoulders relaxing when he sees Markus. He turns to put the flowers down on the counter before facing him again, slightly lopsided glasses matching the kind, crooked smile on his lips as he wipes his hands on his jeans. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. How can I help?”

“We spoke yesterday,” Markus reminds him, “About the flower thing I – sorry, did I make you miss your flight?”

“I’m sorry?” Daniel asks, his smile faltering somewhat, “Flower thing?”

“Yeah, I mean you were closing up so I didn’t really get the chance to explain – I mentioned working for a fashion company?”

Daniel blinks, face blank. “I don’t think I know what – Yesterday, you said?”

It’s a bit rude, all things considered. Markus knows he’s not exactly the most memorable, but still.

“You said you had to catch a plane,” he says again, trying not to sound impatient, “And that I should come back today and talk to your brother?”

“Oh!” Daniel’s eyes widen in understanding, and then he laughs, rubbing at his forehead like he’s trying to erase a sudden headache. “And I’m assuming that Daniel forgot to mention we were twins?”

Markus stares. Daniel’s – or well, decidedly Not Daniel’s - mouth twitches, and he pushes his hands into his pockets.

“You’re the brother,” Markus states dumbly, warmth flooding his cheeks as he fights the urge to cringe, “God, sorry, that must have been so confusing.”

“It’s okay.” Not Daniel grins, walks out from behind the counter and holds his hand out for Markus to shake. “I’m sure you were just as confused. I’m Simon. Daniel is my twin brother who did indeed catch a plane yesterday.”

“Markus. I live up the hill and am looking for inspiration surrounding flowers.” He shakes Simon’s hand, returns his smile with one of his own that he hopes looks less embarrassed than it feels.

“Inspiration,” Simon repeats, “Can I ask for specifics? Are you looking for a simple bouquet, or…?”

Now that he’s standing in front of him, it’s suddenly obvious that Simon isn’t Daniel. He looks kinder somehow, his features not as sharp and brows with more of an arch to them as opposed to the slight furrow Markus remembers. His eyes look bigger too, but that could be because of the glasses. More to the point, his hair is completely different. Where Daniel’s had been quite short and pushed back from his forehead, Simon’s is slightly longer, and falls slightly over his forehead in a small side fringe. He smiles then, a small, somewhat hesitant curl of the lips, and Markus realises he’s just been staring at him without saying anything for like fifteen solid seconds.

“Sorry, I – no, I’m not really looking to buy anything,” Markus admits, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, “I work for CL Fashion, it’s a new company, but uh, I mean – I’ve been asked to come up with a theme for the Spring Gala we have coming up? I thought I might find an idea for it here. ”

“Interesting,” Simon says politely, but there’s an amused glint in his eyes as Markus fumbles with his explanation, “So you thought flowers for spring. Makes sense.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Markus says, without thinking, “Personally I would have wanted something a bit more original, but I have nothing else to go on, and my superiors want flowers, so here I am.”

“So you don’t want to buy anything and you don’t like flowers,” Simon repeats, raising an eyebrow, and Markus blanches.

“No, I do,” he says quickly, “Sorry, that came out wrong, I meant -” Simon snorts a laugh, cutting him off with a quick wave of his hand.

“I’m just messing with you,” he tells him, but his grin is soft and more teasing than actually mocking, “What do you need?”

“Right.” Markus takes a breath. “I was just wondering if I could maybe take a few pictures of the shop and the flowers? That way I can sketch them later, maybe figure out what I’m going to do from there.”

“I mean, sure,” Simon says, “But you’re also welcome to sit and sketch here for a bit, as well. If you want.”

That’s… better. Much better, actually. Markus hates drawing from photos. He definitely prefers drawing what’s actually there, enjoys soaking in the world around him before transferring it out onto the paper. Sitting here would be an infinitely better option.

“I don’t want to get in your way,” he says, hesitantly, but he’s already slipping his bag slowly off his shoulder. Simon watches the movement, looks up at him with a small smile and shrugs.

“You won’t,” he says simply, “I’m mostly going to be stuck behind the counter, so. You can sit in the corner and sketch away.”

“If you’re sure,” Markus says, “That would be amazing, thank you.”

“Not a problem!” Simon points toward the corner of the room, to a small spot of open space in front of a few shelves of straggly climber plants Markus doesn’t know the name of. “That’s probably the best spot to sit. I’ll go get you a chair.”

He ducks into the back, and Markus moves towards the spot. The lighting isn’t the best, but it gives him a good view of the rest of the shop, and of all the flowers. It’s technically still winter, so most of the plants on the shelves are green – hanging plants and hardy succulents. But there are a few splashes of colour here and there, and the way the light filters in through the window makes them look brighter than they are. A few fairy lights are wrapped around some of the shelving, and when Markus glances up at the ceiling, there’s a long line of globe string lights that leads from the door to the counter, almost like they’re illuminating a pathway through the foliage.

“Here we go,” says Simon, coming out from the back room with a wooden chair in his arms, “It’s not the most comfortable one, but it’s better than the floor.”

“That’s perfect,” Markus says, smiling, “You have a very nice shop, by the way. I like all the lights.”

“Oh, thanks.” Simon huffs a quiet laugh. “I wanted it to look a little bit like our garden did, growing up – Daniel complained all the way through hanging them up, but he trusts I’m a better decorator than he is.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Markus says, sitting down on the chair, “Daniel didn’t seem like the most patient individual, but then he was running for a plane, so.”

Simon barks another laugh, rolls his eyes. “Daniel’s never one to plan ahead,” he says fondly, crossing his arms across his chest, “So he’s always running late for something. But he’s patient when it matters. He can come off quite brash, but he just takes being older by an hour a bit too seriously.”

“He sounds great.” Markus opens his bag, pulls out his sketchbook and glances up at Simon with a smile. “I take it you’re the planner then, out of the two of you?”

“Definitely,” Simon says, grinning, “I annoy the crap out of him.”

“I’m sure he appreciates it, really. It’s nice to have someone to balance you out.”

Simon’s expression changes a little, at that. It’s nothing major, just a slight, almost curious glint to his eyes that wasn’t there before. “I agree,” he says then, voice soft, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards into that gentle half-smile again.

It hits Markus precisely at that moment, as Simon ducks his head and pushes one of his sleeves that had been falling down his arm back behind his elbow, that the man is attractive. Or well, that’s not the right word. He _is_ attractive, but there’s something else to it.

_Cute,_ maybe. Simon’s cute.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” Markus hears himself say, eyes dropping to his sketchbook and opening it to a blank page, “I’ve taken enough of your time.”

“Please, take as much as you want,” Simon says drily, “We’re not exactly the most popular location in town yet. I just have a few centre pieces to put together – if you need anything, just ask.”

He turns and heads back towards the counter, and Markus bends to grab his pencil case out of his bag, absolutely refusing to even glance at Simon’s ass. He doesn’t need to know if it’s a nice one. He doesn’t even need to entertain the thought. Instead, he rummages around for a decently sharp pencil, and starts to draw.

Thing is, Markus has never been very interested when it comes to dating. He’s had one or two semi-serious relationships, both of which ended amicably and without much disappointment. He’s better at friendships, never really understood the excitement of summer flings or week-long adventures. He’s not one to be swept away by half-smiles and soft-spoken humour, but he’s also not _blind_ , or immune to charm.  It’s just not exactly ideal timing, when he’s worried about the first proper project of his career, to have someone like Simon show up with a very convenient flower shop but a very inconveniently pretty face.

Markus briefly glances up from the succulent he’d been sketching, eyes finding Simon where he’s moved to some of the plants in the far corner, brow furrowed slightly as he carefully waters them. _Pretty_ is the right word, with delicate fingers that gently push aside leaves and flowers, pale arms toned but not exactly muscular, rolled up sleeves of his Henley showing off a few moles that are dotted across his skin. Simon’s tall, almost as tall as Markus, so he can reach the plants on the top shelf easily, but he still rocks forward on the balls of his feet to do so, heels lifting off the floor. His glasses slide down the straight bridge of his nose, and Simon absent-mindedly reaches up to push it back into place. Markus is suddenly supplied with the image of sleepy blue eyes and a small half-smile as fingers that may or may not be his own pull those glasses off Simon’s face, and promptly turns his attention back to his sketchbook.

He ends up sitting there for about an hour, filling the blank page with small sketches, unhurried and somewhat undetailed, eyes going from flower to flower and putting them to paper. Eventually, the page is full, and Markus sits back, stretching his arms above his head and wincing as his back cracks. He looks at the page. The page stares back.

“ _That is a perfect copy_.” Carl’s voice pops to the forefront of his mind without Markus giving it the permission to do so, and he scoffs as he remembers one of the first personal lessons he’d ever had with the man. “ _But art isn’t about replicating real life. It’s about creating something new. Start over_.”

Markus breathes out heavily through his nose, and tears the page out.

“Harsh,” comes Simon’s voice, and Markus looks up, sees him standing back by the counter with his eyes focused on the flowers he’s holding, hands working in a twisting motion before he reaches out to grab a piece of greenery from the pile he’s got stacked next to him, “Surely you can’t be that bad at drawing.” The words are teasing, but still kind, and Markus laughs softly, ducks his head. 

“It’s artist’s block, I guess,” he says, “My, uh, mentor, I guess you could call him – he’s kind of made me even more of a perfectionist than I was. I don’t like it when I’m not happy with what I’ve done, so I rarely keep it.”

“That’s fair,” Simon says, smiling softly, “But sometimes I think it’s important to keep the stuff you don’t like. Because then you can look back at it later and realise that no matter how frustrated you are with what you’re doing, you’ve improved.” He twists his hand again, gently tugs at one of the flowers of the bouquet he’s making to make it sit where he wants it to.

“I suppose,” Markus allows, “I always get embarrassed, really, when I look at my old drawings. All I can see is what I could have done better.”

“But that’s what you want, isn’t it?” Simon looks up at him then, blue eyes finding his over the rim of his glasses. “Means you’ve grown. Means you can do it again, and do it better. Means you’re not stuck.”

“Do you feel like that with bouquets?” Markus asks, pairing the question with a wry smile, and Simon laughs.

“I do, actually,” he says, “As a kid I used to run outside to get flowers for my mom. They were terrible bouquets, and I ruined her garden completely, but they were learning experiences. Which flowers go together, what compliments what. Coincidentally, it was in those experimental days that I first learned that nettles sting you. I couldn’t hold anything for like three days because of how itchy my palms were, but the bouquet actually looked kind of nice.”

“That’s – ow. I mean, sounds like you were an adorable kid, but that must have sucked.”

“I was.” Simon grins at him, grabs an elastic band from the counter and ties it around the centrepiece he’s made before holding it out for Markus to see, “And it did suck. But like I said, a learning experience.”

“Does that not hurt?” Markus abandons his sketchbook, standing up and walking over to take a closer look, “All that twisting you were doing?”

Simon shrugs. “The friction does at first,” he tells him, “But my hands are callused enough now that I don’t really notice it anymore. The twisting is only really important when it comes to these kinds of bouquets. See how everything’s arranged to be really round? The twisting helps the flowers stay closer together. But some people like a messier look, like a traditional hand tie or a cascading hand tie. This one’s more rounded, so the stems need to be tightly packed together.”

“I wasn’t even really aware there were different types,” Markus admits, and Simon chuckles, takes the bouquet and leans to put it away into the backroom.

“Would you like to try making one?” he asks Markus then, “Maybe that’ll help the artist’s block.”

Markus snorts. Simon just looks at him expectantly.

“Oh, you’re serious?” Markus laughs, shakes his head. “I don’t want to waste your flowers. And trust me, I would.”

“Come on,” Simon drawls, leaning on his arms, crossed over the counter, “I’d obviously use the flowers that were going to be thrown out anyway.” He grins, teasing, and rests his chin in the palm of one hand.

“Uh,” Markus says brilliantly, and then, because he apparently has no backbone anymore, “I mean, if you insist?”

“I do,” Simon says simply, and pushes himself up, stepping into the back room. “Consider it payment, for letting you stay here.”

“Arguably this is taking money from you, not giving,” Markus points out, nervously pushing his sleeves up as Simon comes back out with a bucket of gerbera daisies and greenery that most certainly do _not_ look like they need to be thrown out. They look nice. Far too nice for his unskilled hands.

“You can buy the bouquet you make,” Simon quips, “C’mon, stand here.”

Markus moves to stand behind the counter by Simon’s side, takes the flower the man offers him with tentative fingers.

“See, for these flowers, we’ll need to wrap a wire around the stem so it doesn’t wilt as easily,” Simon tells him, “So what you’re going to do is you’re gonna gently poke it under the flower here -” He takes a thin piece of green wire and gently pokes it through the part where the stem meets the base of the flower, “- And then you just wrap it around gently all the way to the bottom.”

Markus tries his best. The wire is unbelievably fiddly and keeps slipping through his fingers, but eventually he gets there.

“Like this?” he asks, and Simon nods, taking the flower from him to clip off the excess wire.

“Now,” he says, “you’re gonna take this.” He hands Markus a few strands of what looks like long grass, and Markus gathers it between his fingers along with the flower. “And then you twist it, just a bit, at the bottom.”

Markus twists. Not much seems to happen. He gives Simon a doubtful look.

“It’s because you barely have any flowers yet,” Simon explains, rolling his eyes, “Believe me, it’ll make sense in a bit.”

And it does. Markus continues, keeps adding flowers and greenery and twisting at the stems, until he has enough of a bouquet that he can comfortably hold it in one hand without his fingers touching. The plants have stained his hands green, and he’s poked himself on the wires they’ve used enough times that he’s scratched the skin.

“You’re doing great,” Simon says, grinning as Markus scoffs, wincing slightly as the motion rubs the delicate skin between his thumb and forefinger against the plants.

“It’s more of a workout than I was expecting,” he says, frowning as he tries to rearrange one of the flowers that isn’t sitting right, and Simon laughs.

“Here, let me,” he says, tugging the flower effortlessly into place, “You just need to apply a bit more force here before you add more to it.”

And Markus is about to hand him the bouquet, about to call it quits and go home with knowledge that he could never be a florist, but then Simon places one hand over Markus’s as he moves closer to his side, fingers pressing against his and twisting the stems with him.

“Like this,” he says softly, and he’s close enough that his voice is right next to Markus’s ear, the gentle tone making a small shiver travel down his neck. The skin of Simon’s palm is callused but still somehow soft, and Markus can’t help but notice that the man’s hand is just a little bit smaller than his.

“Oh,” he says quietly, tightening his grip and following Simon’s lead, “Like this?”

“Perfect.” Slowly, Simon slides his hand away, the pads of his fingers brushing over the back of Markus’s hand before he reaches for an elastic band to tie around the bouquet. Markus holds it for him, listens to the elastic snap into place with a strange sort of finality, and then Simon steps to the side and smiles at him.

“And there it is,” he says, “You’re a natural.”

Markus ignores the warmth that grows in his chest at the compliment, and gives him a flat look.

“Simon,” he says drily, “It looks awful.”

“Nah, it’s all part of the charm,” Simon insists, grinning, “A few more of these and you can open your own shop.”

“I think I’ll stick to drawing,” Markus says, “Leave the flowers to the professionals.”

Simon laughs, puts the finished atrocity into a small bucket with water. He looks up at him, blue eyes warm, says “I’ll let you get back to it, then,” in that gentle tone, and as Markus goes and sits back in his chair and pulls out his sketchbook again, he finds that it’s easier. He’s still not entirely certain what to draw, but his fingers are stained green and smell of the plants they’d used, and somehow that helps. He lets the green smudge against the page while his draws, hunched over slightly as he focuses on the petals of a rose, gently falling away from the flower and down to the ground. He draws a shelf with succulents, draws an abandoned chalkboard in front of an old stone wall, ivy wrapping around it and travelling up the rock. He draws a messy bouquet of wildflowers, trying to remember the ones he’d seen in the summer, in the field near where he used to live. He draws delicate fingers curled loosely around the stems, draws wild grass brushing against bare legs and the bird from this morning, perched on someone’s shoulder. He draws the slope of that someone’s neck, draws a soft jaw and the curl of the lips; a half-smile on an unfinished face.

“Tea?” Simon’s voice makes Markus startle, and he snaps his sketchbook shut on instinct. Simon’s eyes meet his, and he hesitates, hands wrapped two mugs.

“Sorry,” Markus says quickly, “Force of habit. Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

“Habit of being startled or of hiding your drawings?” Simon asks, handing him a mug, and Markus huffs a demure laugh.

“Both,” he says, and Simon hums, leaning down to move some flowers off of a stool that Markus hadn’t even noticed was there before sitting down and taking a sip of tea.

“You did strike me as being the humble type,” he says lightly, and Markus shrugs.

“I suppose,” he allows, “My parents weren’t very keen on the artist thing, so I was never really open about it.”

“Are they more supportive now, or?”

“You could say that,” Markus says slowly, not meeting Simon’s gaze.

“That’s good, then,” Simon says, smiling, “My parents are still somewhat struggling with the flower shop idea.”

“How did you guys come to buy this place anyway?” Markus asks, taking the chance for the subject change as it’s offered to him.

“It was Daniel’s idea actually,” Simon tells him, “I was working at this one flower shop in the city before, and he’d just gotten back from being an _au pair_ for this family – total assholes, but I won’t get into that. Anyways, he was looking for a job, just something that worked for him, and one day he was visiting here with a friend and he saw that this shop was closing. He told me about it and we went to talk to the old owners and the rest just kind of spiralled into place.” He smiles, brings the mug up to his lips and blows softly to cool the tea.

“Does Daniel have much florist experience?”

“Not in the slightest,” Simon says, grimacing, “The first shipment of flowers we got he didn’t put them in water because he, and I quote, ‘ _forgot that was a thing_ ’.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. But he’s good at the business side of things. I’m decent at maths, but he’s brilliant, so everything finance related is pretty much his responsibility. He also takes care of clean-up most times, and he knows enough about flowers to sell them. Presentation wise, I’m in charge. I’m also significantly better with customers than he is but don’t tell him I said that.”

“Scout’s honour.” Markus hides his grin by taking another sip of tea. He’s not usually a tea type of person, but this tea is much nicer than the black stuff he’s used to and the medicinal teas he bullies Carl with. “This is good,” he states, and Simon smiles, and there’s a hint of pride in how he slightly straightens his back.

“Earl Grey,” he says, “Well, inspired. It’s my own blend, so it’s got a little more to it than the usual store-bought stuff. There’s a tea place in the city that I like to go to, and I play around with flavours.”

“You make your own tea,” Markus says, and it’s not really a question – more of a disbelieving statement, because Simon makes his own tea. Of course. Obviously.

“Sometimes,” Simon says, somewhat defensively, and there’s a slight hint of pink on his cheeks that Markus isn’t sure was there before. He doesn’t comment on it.

“And your parents, how did they react to all this?” he asks, gesturing around him. Simon sighs, pushes his glasses up.

“They weren’t thrilled,” he says slowly, “But they didn’t actively try to stop us. They’re more into passive aggressive manipulation than actually taking action.”

“Ouch,” Markus says, wincing, “I feel that.”

“I think it was coming from a place of love, in a sense,” Simon continues, “They’re the kind of people who don’t believe anything creative can be more than just a pointless hobby, you know?”

“I do know,” Markus says, because he does, “My parents wanted me to be a doctor, or a politician. Or literally anything else that does not involve paintbrushes.”

“Politician,” Simon repeats, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I can see it.”

Markus laughs, shakes his head. “I’m far too easy-going for that,” he says, “I wouldn’t be able to be apathetic, to deal with that kind of world. I’m much too peaceful.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be a standard politician,” Simon suggests, “More like… The benevolent leader of a peaceful revolution.”

“Those exist?” Markus asks drily, and Simon laughs, bending his right leg and resting his foot on the front edge of the stool, wrapping an arm around his calf.

“Maybe it could,” he says, “You’d make it happen. Like Moses.” He smiles at him, eyes bright with humour as he looks at him over the rim of his glasses, and it’s at that point that Markus realises how close they’re sitting. Close enough that his right knee is ever so slightly leaning against Simon’s left. It’s also much darker than it was, and the globe lights overhead are turned on, bathe the room in a soft golden glow and wash over blonde hair and pale skin. It’s quiet, almost secretive, the way the flowers and hanging plants cast shadows over them both, hiding them from the outside world.

“I have to go,” Markus says then, quietly, taking in warm, cornflower blue, “But I think I may have an idea for the theme I have to come up with.”

“Oh?” Simon’s smile grows, and for a split second, his eyes flicker down to what may or may not have been Markus’s lips. “Have you got all the inspiration you need, then?”

“Enough to start,” Markus says, and his next words are tentative, a small leap of faith and a disregard for professionalism. “But it may be useful, to come back here again. If you’re alright with it, that is. I just want to do the flowers justice.”

“I think that would be fine,” Simon murmurs, “For the flowers, of course.” There’s teasing lilt to his voice, timid and barely there but Markus catches it, and he feels a little bit silly as his stomach flutters.

“I’ll, um, see you soon then,” Markus says, and gets to his feet. Simon does the same, takes back the now empty mug and steps to the side to let him past.

“See you soon,” he says softly, glasses askew, and Markus blames it on the late hour as he reaches out without thinking to straighten them with his fingertips.

“Bye,” he murmurs, smiling at the way blue eyes widen and cheeks flush pink, and steps out into the street, closing the door behind him.

He walks home quickly, hands in his pockets and shivering, cold air biting at uncovered skin that had grown accustomed to the warmth of the small shop, but he can’t bring himself to mind the freezing wind that follows him up the hill. In a way, he finds it almost playful - teasing and mischievous, with a sort of paradoxical warmth to the way it pushes at his back, like its helping him forward.

Carl is watching some old movie when Markus arrives, and he doesn’t say a word when Markus sits next to him, sketchbook balanced on his lap. They sit in silence, the voices of the characters fading as Markus loses himself in sketches of delicate hands fashioning a daisy chain, of old stones walls wrapped with ivy, of a man leaning his chin on the palm of his hand and grinning, of wide eyes and half-smiles and two pairs of hands fiddling with flowers.

“Found your muse?” Carl asks, and when Markus glances up at him, he’s once again met with that knowing smile that tells him Carl already knows far more than he should.

“I’ve found a theme,” Markus concedes, “Flowers aren’t too boring after all.”

“What have you come up with, then?”

Markus looks at his sketchbook, looks at the smudges of green left behind, at the lines of pencil on paper. In a way, his drawings had looked better in the dim light of the shop. Here, they’re exposed, and the pages look whiter, brighter. There, they had looked softer, almost. Private. Like they were drawn in a place no one else knew how to find.

“Secret garden,” Markus says, “I think the theme’s going to be Secret Garden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kinda messy but i tried and i hope u like it!!! please comment i live for comments they are my lifeblood


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! thank u sm for all your lovely comments and support on this so far!!!! it means the world to me!
> 
> also u ever see Imagine me and You? Me neither, and it definitely isnt one of the inspirations for this fic

> _Don't be shy just let your feelings roll on by_  
>  _Don't wear fear or nobody will know you're there_  
>  _Just lift your head, and[let your feelings out instead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TDUuBfpbwOs)_

He waits two days before going back to the shop. The first day is because he’s just busy; figuring out all the technicalities of the gala and having to drive to the city to actually see the venue and meet the people he’s working with. It’s tedious in that they’re on various different teams at CL that he’s never even spoken to before, but they seem enthusiastic enough when he suggests his idea, so he won’t complain. They also know a lot more than he does about the event, so he’s finally able to gather all the information he didn’t have previously, such as budgets and guest lists and fashion show duration. The venue itself is simple, so he doesn’t have to worry about clashing colours or awkward wall placements, and he only has to really work on one small corner of the room, where the models will be doing their thing. Things start to come together with more ease than he’d expected, and all he really has to do is focus on his art.

That’s what he tries to do the second day. He sits in the living room with his sketchbook and his supplies, and tries to visualise exactly what he wants the show to look like, what he wants the venue to look like. It’s partially because he knows Simon is still running a business, and he doesn’t want to get in the way, but also because, well. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. So he sits, and he tries to draw, and Carl looks over his shoulder and listens to his complaining and then tells him he’s an idiot for not taking advantage of the muse he’d found, and Markus finally gives up on trying to prove that he’s just as capable of doing this job without the helpful surroundings of the shop and snaps his sketchbook shut.

When he _does_ go back, after Carl practically throws him out of the house with the order to stop being ridiculous (which stings a little considering Markus spent the morning fighting to get the man to eat oatmeal), he catches Simon just as he’s opening up for the day. He’s half leaning against the wall as he fumbles with his keys, struggling with the large box he’s awkwardly holding under his arm. His back is to him, so he doesn’t see him approach, and he jumps about five feet in the air when Markus comes up behind him and promptly pulls the box from his grasp.

“ _Fuck_ , could you _not_. I nearly went into cardiac arrest – that’s the second time, as well!” He clutches at his chest, glaring at Markus like he’s mortally offended him, and the furious pout paired with the curse word Markus hadn’t been expecting sends him into a sudden fit of laughter, bending forward at the waist as he struggles to keep hold of the box. Simon keeps it together for a while longer, trying to remain stern, but then his mouth twitches and he joins in, helpless giggles mixing with Markus’s own.

“Christ, your _face_ ,” Markus manages, “I’m sorry, I was just trying to help, I swear!”

“Well I’d hope so!” Simon unlocks the door, shaking his head as their laughter calms down, “Next time I really will have a heart attack.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Markus says again, trying not to replay the “ _next time_ ” in his mind as he follows Simon inside, “Where d’you want this?”

“Just on the counter, please,” Simon says, hanging his keys on a hook by the door, and Markus goes to put the package down. Simon joins him, steps behind the counter and smiles at him as he gets to work cutting the box open.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be back,” he says then, running scissors along the tape, “Wondered if maybe you’d changed your mind.” Markus hums, steadies the box with one hand as Simon pulls one side open.

“I was trying to wait, but. Couldn’t stay away, I guess,” he admits, meeting his eye, and Simon’s smile grows into a grin. He looks away, busies himself with unpacking rolls of wrapping paper and ribbons, and Markus feels incredibly smug.

The days kind of all fade into each other, after that.

The small little corner of the shop he’d sat in his first day here becomes his spot, and Markus’s visits become more and more frequent over the next week, until he’s basically there all day, every day. Simon doesn’t mind, just wordlessly rearranges plants to give him room to stretch out his legs, and even puts a pillow on the chair for him. It becomes familiar, a routine Markus didn’t realise he’d enjoy so much, spending hours sketching and sometimes painting, taking breaks to help Simon with sweeping away leaves and bits of stem or whatever else he’s able to do. He likes it, likes the shop with its soft dim lighting, likes the smell of flowers and the sound of the occasional car driving past or the chime of the bell above the door when there’s a customer. And he likes Simon.

It’s fast, the way that develops. And yet, there’s no actual rush to it; it feels natural and easy and remarkably simple, all things considered, but it’s quick enough that it still takes Markus off guard sometimes. Simon will go about his day, will water what needs to be watered and put together pretty bouquets at the counter, and every so often he’ll approach Markus with fingers stained green wrapped around a mug of something warm, smiling that small, almost shy smile that Markus has grown quite fond of, and Markus will look down at his sketchbook at the end of the day and realise that quite a lot of the random drawings of hands and eyes and lips aren’t that random after all.

It’s strange, because they’re still only just getting to know each other, but there’s none of that initial awkwardness Markus is used to. Their conversations never really seem to stop, just pause and start again when Markus comes back the next day, and none of it ever feels like small talk. Markus doesn’t have to force his interest, finds he genuinely wants to know all the little anecdotes Simon shares with him. Stories about his brother’s antics when they were at school, about the yearly trips taken with his parents up to a small log cabin in the middle of nowhere, about the first time he’d ever felt real fear; memories shared in soft-spoken words, weaving humour and nostalgia into each sentence, those blue eyes finding his and keeping him rooted to the spot without even trying to do so. And Markus will do the same, will share his stories when Simon asks for them, and Simon will laugh at his jokes and listen to him without asking anything in return, silent except for the occasional hum or a perhaps a quiet giggle, if Markus is lucky.

It’s mostly due to how genuine Simon is, how easy it is to talk to him and how natural to feels to trust him, that Markus ends up telling him about his parents. He does it because he knows Simon’s noticed he still keeps his sketches to himself, knows he’s wondering why, and doesn’t want him to think it’s because Markus doesn’t want to show him. He does, it’s just that there’s more to it that he’s only ever told Carl, and even then he felt awkward speaking about it. But he tells Simon, mentions it quietly as he focuses on a drawing he’s doing and Simon’s rearranging a shelf nearby, tells him about the well-meaning couple who adopted him, tells him about their excited conversations about his future that he had no part in, tells him about keeping all his drawings to himself. He tells him of applying to an art college without their permission, tells him of the months without contact and the car accident that happened before he’d been able to show them any of his art, before he’d been able to prove he’d made the right decision. And Simon just stands there, the plants on the shelf all in the right place but he moves them around anyway, just listening to him, and when Markus is done Simon smiles that small half-smile, murmurs an apology that Markus knows means “ _thank you for telling me_ ,” and goes to make him tea.

There’s no pressure, no expectations, and seemingly no rhyme or reason to it – it just happens. And Markus has never been all that fixated on romance, has only ever been with two people and had a few passing crushes, but suddenly he’s sitting on Carl’s couch at two in the goddamn morning, drawing flowers weaved through short blonde hair and thinking about how his name sounds on Simon’s tongue, and it’s all a bit concerning because he has no idea when it started but he finds he doesn’t really mind it at all.

Somewhere along the way, during one of their increasingly frequent tea breaks, Simon starts teaching him the meaning of flowers. It’s his own fault, really, for asking about red roses.

“What about them?” Simon asks, smiling when Markus gestures impatiently at their surroundings. It’s coming up to Valentine’s day, which Markus never really had any strong feelings about, but the shop is suddenly overflowing with red roses, and Simon barely has any free time in between all the customers rushing to buy flowers for a date or for a friend’s date, or in the case of the most recent young customer, an actual miniature rose bush before picking up their girlfriend at the train station.

“Why are they the staple of romantic flowers? Who decided that?”

“It dates back to ancient Greek and Roman times,” Simon says, “They’re associated with Aphrodite, or Venus. Goddess of love, and all that.”

“Right, but why?” Markus asks, “Is there some sort of Greek legend, stating that she just really liked roses?”

Simon laughs, shakes his head. “I’m not entirely sure. But in Roman times, I think it’s related to the fact that wealthy people would cover their beds in rose petals because they wanted the room to smell nice, before they had sex.” A drop of tea slides down his cup, down his thumb, and Simon lifts his hand to his mouth to lick it away. This isn’t an issue, except it is, because he looks up at Markus as he does it, and something in Markus’s face makes him pause, makes those lips curl up into a knowing smile that Markus finds a little bit devastating.

“There are other romantic flowers, of course,” he continues, voice quiet, “But red roses in particular have… More sensual connotations. Technically, orange or coral roses represent passion and desire, but red roses have the colour symbolism attached to them, so.”

“I’m somehow doubtful people know the meanings of all the flowers before buying them,” Markus says, and he’s trying to sound light-hearted but his mouth is suddenly very dry and his voice comes out a little hoarse because of it. Simon’s smile just grows, which doesn’t help things.

“I suppose Hollywood has had a role. Besides, it’s easier to woo someone with actual flowers. If you only wanted to convey lust, for example -” He leans forward as he says it, eyes flickering down to Markus’s lips for a fraction of a second, “- you’d give them coriander, which I doubt would go down well.”

“Some people like spices,” Markus says, because he’s an idiot. Simon blinks at him, and then the slight tension that had been building in the space between them evaporates as he laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I mean, if you take them out for Indian food, then maybe,” he allows, grinning, “But on Valentine’s day? Stick with the roses.”

“Noted.” Markus grins back, feels warmth unfurl slowly in his chest as Simon’s giggles quieten down, and he suddenly wants to reach across to gently press his finger against the corner of Simon’s mouth, touch that smile and see if his lips are as soft as they look. He slips his hands under his thighs instead, sitting on them like that will keep them stuck to the chair, and changes the subject.

It starts something though, because now Markus is interested in what all the flowers mean. And Simon just tells him, will catch him staring at a given plant as the days go on and casually inform him of the name and origin, will tell him all the stories he knows, and which flowers match it best. And Markus can barely remember any of them, has to keep asking the same questions, but Simon doesn’t mind. As a matter of fact, he finds it funny.

“So, pink carnations,” Markus says slowly, a week after the Red Rose Incident, thoughtfully tapping one of the cookies Simon had brought in with his index finger, “Those mean undying affection right?”

“Close,” Simon says, picking at a chocolate chip, “They symbolise undying motherly love.”

“Damn. Really thought I had that one.”

“I mean, you were nearly there. What about sunflowers?”

“Loyalty, right? And long-lasting happiness?”

“Ding ding.” Simon smiles, and he actually looks impressed, which Markus finds a bit ridiculous, but he preens anyway.

“It’s easier to remember the flowers you’re familiar with, and the ones you like,” Simon adds, “There are a lot of plants where I have no clue, because I just don’t like them much. I know how to keep them alive, but-”

“But you don’t particularly want to,” Markus finishes, smiling as Simon snorts a laugh, crumbs falling down his chin. “What’s your favourite flower, anyway? You’ve never told me.”

“Lilies,” Simon answers, and there’s a slight flush of pink to his cheeks as he says it. Markus waits, and when Simon doesn’t say more, he nudges his knee against his.

“What do lilies mean?” he asks. Simon chews slowly, blue eyes resolutely avoiding his as he swallows his mouthful.

“They mean ‘ _I dare you to love me_ ’,” he says then, looking at his lap. Markus looks at him for a while, takes in the small leaf from some plant that’s gotten caught in his hair. Gently, he reaches across and pulls it free. Simon watches him, and Markus thinks he sees his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t try to move away.

“Another romantic flower, then,” Markus says quietly, and Simon hums, face tinted a pale pink.

“There’s some dispute to whether they actually mean that, or if they mean purity and devotion. Personally I like the first option more, so.”

“So do I.”

Simon stays quiet for another few seconds, glances up at him and seems to debate something internally. His eyes flicker over Markus’s face, and when Markus smiles at him, reassuring and expectant, Simon’s shoulders relax.

“There’s another flower I like,” he says then, “Though it’s too early in the year for them to be around. Gardenias.”

His voice is quiet, almost shy. Markus leans forward slightly, catches his gaze.

“What do gardenias mean?” he asks, soft.

“Several things, really.” Simon pulls absentmindedly at his sleeve, stares at his lap. “In Victorian times, people would use to send messages by sending flowers. Gardenias were used to secretly express affection, to tell someone you liked them without them knowing who you are.” He looks up then, the pink of his cheeks several shades darker, and says, “They also mean ‘ _you’re lovely_ ’.”

And Markus should be concerned about the sudden surge of complete happiness that bubbles up in his chest, should be worried about how instantly his lips spread into a grin, how heat rushes to his cheeks like he’s a teenager with a crush, but he finds he doesn’t really care much if that’s what he is. He takes a breath, steadying himself and schooling his expression into something less, well, _gay_ , before meeting Simon’s eyes. Simon’s smiling; a response to Markus’s grin, but it’s nervous, unsure, just barely daring to be hopeful.

“Is there a flower,” Markus says then, “That signifies, ‘ _Thank you, also can I take you out for Dinner sometime?_ ’Or something to that effect.”

Any nervousness in Simon’s expression evaporates, and he sinks back into his chair with a loud exhale.

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” he says then, and he sounds so relieved that Markus can’t stop himself from laughing. Simon follows, and the sound is beautiful and bright and matches his own, and Markus thinks of the piano in Carl’s house and that one happy melody he’s played countless times before but now sounds different to him, sounds like laughter and soft-spoken words and secret conversations.

“You, uh, you may have to combine several flowers, for that,” Simon says eventually, and his eyes are bright with happiness and so unbelievably blue that Markus feels a little bit winded.

“Well,” is what Markus says, “I’ve recently learned I’m absolutely terrible at bouquets. Will you help me?”

“I could be persuaded, yes.” Simon’s mouth twitches in an effort to keep his expression serious, trying to hold back a grin. “When would you want it done for?”

Markus hesitates, tries to think of a time that doesn’t sound too ridiculously eager, something that makes sense. Except he is kind of eager, and Simon’s looking at him expectantly and he’s been spending basically every day here for the past month almost, and maybe none of this has to be sensible.

“Not to sound too eager -”

“I mean, I’m free _now_ , but -”

They speak at the same time, Simon shifting nervously in his seat as Markus awkwardly speaks up, and they both break off, looking at each other.

“Um, I mean -”

“Now works,” Markus says, quietly, “If you want, that is.”

“I do. I very much do,” Simon replies, “Just, uh. Ten minutes? So I can tidy and lock up properly?”

“Only if I can help.”

“Deal.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lads back on my bullshit again
> 
> i have exams so next update may take longer but HOPEFULLY i'll keep this consistency going!! thank u sm for all your support and lovely comments
> 
> also not to be gay but this scene makes me emo bc i love parks and obnoxious prose

 

 

> " _The night sky once ruled my imagination_  
>  _Now I turn the dials with careful calculation_  
>  _After a while, I thought I’d never find you_  
>  _I convinced myself that I would never find you_  
>  _[When suddenly I saw you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PwMN8QtWCic)._"

It’s by pure coincidence that they find _Cibo Per La Mente_.

When they first stepped out of the shop, they’d realised it was several hours too early in the day for dinner, and Markus had nearly suggested they go back inside, so Simon wouldn’t miss any customers. But Simon had just locked the door, had put his keys in his pocket, and had simply said, “Shall we?” with a soft, expectant smile that Markus couldn’t refuse, proper business etiquette be damned.

So, they end up walking around the town, frightfully quiet for a Friday afternoon, but Markus actually likes it better that way. It means they can keep their steps slow, unhurried, and he has the time to stand back and let Simon point out the occasional stupid hat or awful pair of shoes in a passing store window, has the time to look at him in a place other than his shop, wearing a warm hoodie with sleeves that are too long for him. It’s freezing for the end of February, but Markus couldn’t care less, because it means Simon walks closer to him, shoulders brushing with every second step. It’s nice, and an hour passes in what feels like a blink, Markus lost in their conversation, in the story Simon’s telling him, not entirely sure how they got all the way to the other side of town but not really being bothered by it.

It’s then, in the middle of a very entertaining tale of how Simon accidentally got Daniel stuck in a tree on a dare, that Markus sees the faded old sign, and stops in his tracks.

“You alright?” Simon looks back at him over his shoulder, having taken a few more steps before he realised Markus wasn’t following him.

“Yeah, sorry, I – I had no idea this place still existed,” Markus says, peering through the window, “Carl swears by it. We actually had lunch here together years ago – it’s where he first said I could stay with him, after school.”

Simon comes to stand next to him, reads over the faded menu on the wall with a small smile playing at his lips. The light is on inside, and Markus can see the red tablecloths and a few obscured silhouettes – still open for business, despite the faded, somewhat unkempt look about it.

“Looks good,” Simon says then, “Think they’ll have a table?”

“I mean, probably,” Markus says, “Do you like Italian? We can go somewhere else, I’m not fussed-”

“I like Italian,” Simon interrupts, “Besides, I want to see this blast from the past. Let’s go inside.”

They go inside. It’s quiet, and a waiter greets them straight away, a warm smile on his face as he directs them to the far corner of the room, where a small table sits secluded, hidden behind a large standing plant and in view of the kitchen door. It’s a bit tight, but as they wedge themselves into their seats and Simon’s legs brush against his in order to sit comfortably, Markus finds he doesn’t mind being squashed. And, if the soft blush on Simon’s cheeks is anything to go by, neither does he.

“Is it like you remember?” Simon asks once they’ve ordered – something spinach-ricotta related that Simon picked, because he’d made a pleased sound when he saw it on the menu and Markus was so distracted by it that when the waiter asked him what he wanted he realised he hadn’t read the damn thing himself, so he panicked and ordered the same.

“Mostly,” he says, “The table cloths used to be a different colour, I think? It’s been so long – I wasn’t really focusing on the restaurant back then, too busy freaking out about my living arrangements.”

“Did Carl offer, or did you ask first?”

“Carl offered. Rather, he told me I would be living with him.” Markus smiles at the memory. “I’d been trying not to let him know I was struggling, but he knew my lease in the college dorms was gonna end soon and he asked if I’d found a place yet and when I said I hadn’t, well.”

“Did he already know, then? About your parents, that is.” Simon says it quietly, like he’s unsure he’s allowed to bring it up. The concern is appreciated, and Markus makes his voice soft as he replies – unspoken gratitude.

“He knew. I was, um. I was actually heading to his office, when I got the call. I missed like three of our personal lessons after that so when I went back I kind of owed him the truth.”

“I can’t…” Simon hesitates, smiles a small smile that looks almost pained. “I can’t imagine what that must have felt like. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Markus says, shaking his head, “We were never the most close-knit family. But they were the only family I had, so. It sucked, but. I’m fine. And I have Carl. In a way he was more of a father to me than my actual Dad.”

“That I can understand,” Simon says, eyes flickering to the tablecloth, “My Dad… We don’t talk, not about anything that matters. He tolerates my existence mostly because he knows Daniel will never forgive him if he doesn’t. Growing up I always secretly wished my friend’s dad was my dad as well.”

“There’s a story, there,” Markus notes, and Simon laughs, shrugs his shoulders.

“Not really much to tell. So how long have you been living with Carl, then?”

Markus hesitates. Takes in blue eyes and the way they look a little bit harder, more guarded.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says then, slowly, “But I’d like to know. But I can also just change the subject by saying I’ve lived with Carl for about five years and tell you about how he does my head in by refusing to take his medicine.”

Simon laughs again, but it’s softer, bashful. The smile reaches his eyes this time, and they soften as he holds Markus’s gaze, cautious bleeding into curious as he thinks it over.

“My father only really wanted the one son,” he says then, “And growing up it became more and more obvious each passing year that if he had to choose between the two of us, he would pick Daniel. My brother fit this idea my dad had, of the confident son who was good at sports and science and could sit with him and drink beer, or whatever. The good son. The straight son. And then there was me, with my flowers and my picking drama at school and apparently fitting too many stereotypes for comfort.” He says it lightly, like it’s a joke, but Markus isn’t laughing. “Anyway, um. He’d always compare the two of us, whenever I got in trouble. Because I was the opposite of Daniel in so many ways, and apparently Daniel was the better twin. So I didn’t like being home much.”

“That wasn’t fair on you,” Markus says, frowning, “Just because you’re twins doesn’t mean you have to be the same person.”

Simon smiles again. “I know. It’s okay, really. I spent most of my time at my friend’s – she’s actually coming to see me soon when she gets home, she’s been at sea for what feels like years – but yeah, I’d just go over to hers and spend time with her dad. I think he kind of knew, what was happening at home? But he never mentioned it – just hung out with me and was just nice, you know? I got most of your typical fatherly advice from him.”

The waiter brings them their food then, and Markus is a little bit relieved that whatever he ordered looks and smells great. He nearly moans as he bites into the pasta, mouth filling with rich cheese and tomato sauce, and Simon laughs at his blissed out expression.

“Good, huh?”

“I only just realised I was starving,” Markus says truthfully, “Anyway, your friend’s dad. He sounds like a great guy. Are you still in touch?”

Simon’s smile falters, and he shakes his head. “He passed away, unfortunately,” he says, “When I was about fifteen? I can’t remember the exact date.”

“Shit. You said you couldn’t imagine what I felt like – I think you probably can.”

“I suppose.” Simon shrugs, stabs at his pasta. “He wasn’t my real father, but. I loved him, and he was always there for me. He used to tell me to be my own person no matter what, and that it was actually better that me and Daniel weren’t similar.” He looks at Markus then, lips curling up into a private smile, like he’s remembering an inside joke. “He used to say that any relationship, be it familial or otherwise, worked best when the people involved balance each other out.”

“A wise man,” Markus says, and he remembers, remembers how he’d said something similar the first day he’d met Simon, remembers how Simon’s face had flickered in recognition that Markus had immediately wanted to ask about, but he doesn’t comment on it. Simon notices it anyway, and they sit in silence for a moment, sharing a memory without words.

“For what it’s worth,” Markus says then, pushing a piece of pasta around on his plate, “I think you’re wonderful. And I hope I’m not coming off as rude by saying that your biological father can go suck on a cactus.”

Simon promptly chokes on the pasta he’d been eating, clapping a hand over his mouth as he coughs between laughter. Markus grins, pops a piece of ravioli in his mouth and smugly chews as Simon clears his throat, eyes watering a little as he leans back in his chair.

“Not rude, well deserved,” he manages, eyes bright, “Thank you. I’ll be honest, his opinion of me matters so little at this point. But it’s nice to know you like me.”

“Like you,” Markus repeats, eyes flickering down to Simon’s lips of their own accord, and there’s a smudge of sauce right there, at the corner of Simon’s mouth. “Of course I like you.”

Simon smiles, teasing yet bashful as his cheeks flush pink. “Yeah?” he asks quietly, resting his chin in one perfect hand.

Markus reaches across the table before he really realises that he’s doing it. Gently, he wipes the sauce away with his thumb, and blue eyes widen, finding his and holding his gaze. Markus swallows, leans back and resolutely doesn’t let his eyes wander to Simon’s lips again.

“Yeah.”

They change the topic then, go back to fun stories of their respective youths and talk about how terrible Markus would be as a florist, and despite Simon’s teasing quips and mischievous smiles, his cheeks stay flushed, and Markus is pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the slight wriggle he sees as their calves brush against each other under the table. He loses himself in Simon’s voice, in the bubble of golden warmth that seems to surround the two of them, and he barely tastes any of the food. Dessert seems to last both seconds and hours, and Simon’s hand is on the table, so close to Markus’s fingertips that if he moved them an inch closer, their skin would touch. It’s at this point, when Markus’s attention is captured by just how nice Simon’s hand is, that the waiter comes back to their table.

“Sorry gentlemen,” he says gently, lips twitching like he’s holding back a grin, “I don’t wish to disturb you, but the restaurant is closing soon.”

Markus blinks, looks up from the table at the rest of the restaurant. It’s darker, the sky outside gone black, and they’re the only people left inside.

“Oh,” Simon says, “I did not notice – we should go.”

“Yeah, that’s probably – can we uh, get the bill?”

They’re laughing when they leave, a mix of embarrassment and giddiness that Markus really should be too old for, but then Simon throws his head back and cackles like a mischievous child and reminds him of the look on the waiter’s face when Markus panicked and gave him a twenty dollar tip, and Markus feels warm and happy and so stupidly smitten by it all that he doesn’t care how ridiculous he looks.

It’s late, but neither of them comments on it. Instead they keep walking, and Simon tells him about nights he’d sneak out of his window to look at the stars and Markus tells him of nights in College where he’d go on walks at 2 a.m. to feel alone in the world, and how feeling small and insignificant can sometimes be comforting. They turn right at the edge of the town square, head down a road framed by large houses and trees, and Markus doesn’t really know how it happens but suddenly they’re at the small park he likes to visit, the one with the stone bridge and the pond. They walk slowly towards the gate, and Markus wants to say something, wants to tell Simon of all the hours he’s spent here, but then Simon takes a step closer to him and their knuckles brush, and all words die on Markus tongue. He swallows them back down, slows his steps and glances down, and it’s so unbelievably easy to move his hand and intertwine his fingers with Simon’s that he wonders why he hasn’t done it before now.

“Is this okay?” he asks, the words quiet but easily heard in the silence that surrounds them, and Simon’s smiling, blue eyes bright as they find his.

“It is,” he says, and pulls him through the gate, down that dirt path Markus knows like the back of his hand, but right now his hands feel a little bit sweaty and his heart is beating a little bit fast, and it just feels safer to look down at his feet to avoid tripping over stones and protruding roots he otherwise wouldn’t be worried about.

“I come here a lot,” Simon says then, “Or I try to, anyway. It’s a bit difficult what with the shop, but I like it here. There’s this bit over the pond, if you stand in the middle of the bridge and look across, there’s-”

“The gap in the trees,” Markus interrupts, soft, “That kind of looks like a heart, if you angle yourself right?”

Simon laughs quietly, and there’s a slight amount of pressure around Markus’s fingers that fades as soon as Markus feels it, like Simon only just managed to stop himself from squeezing them.

“You come here too,” Simon says, and it isn’t a question, “I should have figured. It’s strange, it’s such a small town – I would have thought I’d have spotted you.”

They’ve reached the pond. The water looks like ink in the night, a pure black that reflects the crescent moon above, and their steps sound loud on the stone as they make their way slowly over the small, arched bridge. They stop in the middle, look over to where they both know the gap in the trees is, even if it’s too dark to really see them.

“There’s a willow tree, over on the other side,” Markus murmurs, free hand gesturing towards where he means, “I usually sit under there. It’s a good place to stay hidden, and the branches keep the wind out a little bit. It’s nice.”

“A secret tree,” Simon muses, tone teasing, “You’re full of mysteries, Markus Manfred.”

Markus laughs, shakes his head as Simon grins and leans against the bridge wall. “I have to be somewhat of a mystery,” he says, “Brooding artist, and all that. It’s part of the branding.”

“Ah, of course.” Simon nods in fake seriousness, the corners of his lips tugging up almost despite himself. He meets Markus’s gaze, and Markus feels himself take a step closer without even realising. The soft, gentle smile widens, but there’s apprehension there, a nervousness that’s so endearing Markus doesn’t really know what to do with it. He’s beautiful.

Even in the dark, Simon’s blush is obvious. A surprised laugh bubbles out of his mouth, and Markus realises he’s said it aloud.

“Not so bad yourself,” Simon murmurs then, thumb stroking over Markus’s. They stand there, listen to the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant sound of a car driving past, and Markus tries not to stare at soft-looking lips.

He fails spectacularly, and he almost wants to apologise when they spread into a knowing, pleased grin, but Simon’s faster.

“Are you planning on kissing me at some point tonight,” he says, “Or are you going to make me wait until the second date, for that?”

Markus ducks his head, huffs out a laugh before meeting his eyes again. “I was under the impression that you were a gentleman,” he teases, and Simon’s eyes widen in fake indignation as he dramatically clasps his free hand against his chest.

“ _Fuck_ no, God forbid,” he says, and Markus is still grinning like a fool so when their lips first meet, it’s a clumsy, sloppy thing that needs some rearranging. But then Simon tilts his head just so and rests his hand on Markus’s shoulder, and Markus exhales softly before capturing his lips again, and this time the kiss is softer, slower, and so wonderfully, simply perfect that he feels drunk on it.

“Did that live up to your expectations?” he murmurs when they break apart, staying close enough that his lips brush Simon’s as they shape the words. Simon laughs, quiet and soft, and closes the gap with a sweet, chaste peck.

“I think so,” he says then, “But further testing is required before I can form a final opinion.”

“Oh really?” Markus kisses him again, swallows playful laughter as he presses the man gently into the cool stone wall, and Simon’s fingers are cold where they travel up his neck and press at the base of his skull, feeling the buzzed hair there, but his lips are warm; a gentle fire that travels through Markus’s body and protects him from the chilly night air.

“Analysis complete,” Simon breathes when Markus finally pulls away, “Very, very good kisser confirmed.”

Markus laughs, and because it’s a thing he can do now he kisses him again, tastes the remnants of tiramisu on his tongue.

“I’m flattered,” he says then, “And for the record, you are also a very good kisser.”

“I know,” Simon hums, hand coming to rest on Markus’s chest. Markus snorts, rolls his eyes, but he can feel the fond smile tugging at his lips and knows it’s betrayed him.

“As much as I wish we could stay here and continue this for the next couple of hours,” Simon says then, smiling ruefully, “It’s getting really cold and I have to work tomorrow. Considering I left the shop in the middle of the afternoon because of some handsome man.”

“How reckless of you.” Markus smiles, brings Simon’s hand up to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. “May I walk you home? It’s the least a handsome man can do.”

“A _ridiculous_ man,” Simon quips, but he’s grinning, “By all means.”

The walk back feels like it takes seconds, Simon’s fingers entwined tightly with his and their steps in sync, and Markus revels in how natural it feels, how easy it is to go back to casual conversation. Their pace is slow, and Markus trusts Simon to lead the way, lets himself be distracted by the full moon, high in the sky.

“You know, it’s silly,” he murmurs, “when I was a child, I used to think the moon followed our car. I’d tell my Dad to drive slow, because I wanted to be able to see it. I thought that it protected us, so if we lost it, it wouldn’t be able to do that. I used to hate driving during the day – was always really scared we’d get into an accident.” He pauses, breathes out and watches the air from his lungs travel upwards like smoke. “In the end, the accident happened at night.”

Simon squeezes his hand, fingers tight around his own. “Daniel tried to scare me, as a kid,” he says quietly, “Told me there were creatures that lived in the trees and in the night sky, and that they watched us while we slept. It was supposed to stop me from stealing his snacks or his toys when he was asleep, but. It’s weirdly one of the more comforting things he ever said to me. I felt less alone, even though there was nothing really there.” He smiles at him then, a gentle, shy curling of the lips. “I think in a way you were your own protection. And I don’t think that’s a silly thing, for a child to want.”

Markus doesn’t reply, doesn’t know what words he would use. But he tightens his grip on Simon’s hand, rubs his thumb over pale skin, and lets the moon follow them at a distance as they make their way back home.

“I’ve never actually seen where you live,” Markus muses when they reach the shop, “For some reason it didn’t click until just now that you live above the shop.”

Simon laughs, pulls his keys out of his pocket as they stop at a door on the left of the shop window, painted a boring, practical black as opposed to Simon’s chosen shade of forest green. “It wasn’t my first choice,” Simon admits, “I was planning on just staying there until I got enough money to find a better place, but. It’s kind of grown on me.” He smiles a small, private smile. “It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s my home. And it’s practical, to live above the shop, because it means I can sleep in. I’m absolutely not a morning person.”

Markus wonders what Simon’s like in the morning. Whether he’d be grumpy, burrow under the covers and slam the snooze button, or if he’d be drowsy, blue eyes slowly blinking open while making small, sleepy sounds of protest. He considers asking, but the overly optimistic part of his brain stops him, tells him to wait, tells him he may get to see it himself one day.

“I don’t mind mornings, much,” he says instead, “I tend to always be awake early, and I like the quiet.”

Simon huffs a quiet laugh as he opens the door, lingering on the step. “I can see it,” he says, nose wrinkling in mock displeasure, “You’re one of those people that like to watch the sunrise. Willingly getting up at inhuman hours to do so. Disgusting.”

Markus shrugs, smiles a crooked smile as he catches Simon’s gaze. “I like pretty things,” he says, “I like watching the world wake up.”

“God, you’re such an artist,” Simon scoffs, and then he’s leaning forward, presses his lips against Markus’s and curls his fingers around the lapels of his coat. “I like it, though,” he murmurs as he pulls back, and Markus’s next exhale comes out a little bit shakier than he’d like.

“That’s good,” he says lamely. Simon chuckles, looking pleased with himself.

“See you tomorrow?” It’s phrased like a question, a lingering hint of nervousness there as he lets go of Markus’s coat, and Markus smiles. The step makes Simon a tiny bit taller than him, so Markus can’t quite reach his lips, but he moves in to press a gentle kiss to his jaw. Simon’s skin is cold, so Markus tries not to read too much into the shiver that goes through him at the action.

“See you tomorrow,” he confirms, pulling back.

“Bye,” Simon murmurs, hiding his smile in his scarf as he steps inside, and closes the door behind him with a gentle click. Markus lets out a long breath, looks up at the stars and the moon and thinks about inky black water and secret trees and a smaller frame pressed between his own and cold stone.

His walk home is slow and unhurried, and Carl is long since asleep when he finally gets inside, so he’s careful not to make too much noise. Quietly, he goes to his bedroom, and takes a moment to give his bed a considering once-over before turning to the easel in the corner and picking up his paintbrush. It’s only two hours later, when the old Grandfather clock downstairs lets him know that it’s four in the morning, that Markus finally falls into bed, fingers stained with paint and lips curled into a smile that refuses to fade.

* * *

 

[Some beautiful art by Ceeridwen99:](http://ceeridwen99.tumblr.com/post/182806891897/for-farouchedoncjevie-are-you-planning-on?fbclid=IwAR3mJe9FhysBS7qURh-rgyRnk-bWweTk9SV7arPBXEmEGKr6I4n0ImqL5uY)

[](http://ceeridwen99.tumblr.com/image/182806891897) 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello i'm back! i was on a oh-fuck-it's-xmas-and-i-need-to-go-back-to-my-hometown hiatus and today im still in my hometown and therefore sad so i decided fuck it and to post this chapter, which is why i'm not,,,,,, entirely sure about this one but i hope you guys like it i tried my best
> 
> also you know that makeout scene in imagine me and you? yeah, that marked me as a young queer. wild.

 

 

> _They say don't go out,_  
>  _Don't get lost in the dark,_  
>  _Don't go in too deep,_  
>  _Don't swim out too far,_  
>  _They say don't go out,_  
>  _Don't go out too fast,_  
>  _[Cause I feel it all and I need to live a little at last.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0EPF3r7J-k)_

It’s quiet, this morning. The morning sun filters through his bedroom window, and all that can be heard are soft brush strokes against canvas, Markus’ own breathing, and the occasional chirp of a bird outside.

And Chapman, who had the nerve to call him at this otherwise peaceful hour.

“So, the stone tiles are approved?” Markus clarifies, trying, at least to a certain degree, to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“ _Yes! It was a bit of a struggle, but the sketches you sent really help clear up what you meant._ ”

Markus pauses, paint brush hovering over the canvas. “As in… Stone tiles?”

“… _Yes, well. Anyways, I sent the final plans off and we have the go ahead. The only things we need now are the paintings. How are they getting on?_ ”

Markus gently slides the brush against the canvas, movements careful and delicate as he adds some final touches. “Almost done,” he says then, “There’s just one more thing I really need to do. If it goes well I should be able to bring them to the venue next week.”

“ _You’re cutting it close_ ,” Chapman says through the phone, voice nasally as ever, “ _The Gala’s next Friday, you do know that?_ ”

“And the paintings will be there by Thursday at the latest,” Markus states, giving his phone a quick glare where it’s lying on the stool by his easel.

“ _Alright then_ ,” Chapman exclaims, “ _See, I told you it’d all be fine. Good job on this Markus. You’ve really impressed the higher ups with this_.”

“Thank you, sir,” Markus replies, and his accompanying smile is actually genuine, for once. Because as crazy of an assignment this was, he’s proud of his work. And he’s enjoyed it.

Although, that wasn’t due to the job alone, really.

“I actually have to go,” he says then, picking his phone up, “Business to attend to. Goodbye sir.”

“ _Alright then! Have a good day, and if you need anything – my wife wants to go out tonight but I can cancel, you know how she ge_ -”

Markus rolls his eyes so hard it hurts his head, and hangs up.

He wipes his fingers on the paint-covered rag he has with him – it doesn’t do much in regards to cleaning his hands, but the motion is relaxing. He gives the painting a once over, takes in the small details he’s been trying to get perfect, the parts he’s proud of. It’s a _good_ painting. And he finds that he actually really likes it.

It could be due to the subject matter, he muses, as painted blue eyes meet his, but he’ll count it as a success.

Now he just has to hope Simon likes it, too.

He heads downstairs, knowing he has to wait a small while for the paintings to fully dry, and finds Carl sitting by the TV, watching the screen with a vague, disinterested look.

“We have books, you know,” Markus says, letting himself fall onto the sofa next to him, “You don’t _have_ to watch this if you don’t want to.”

“It’s important to keep up to date with what the current media is,” Carl replies, stifling a yawn, “This is a film clearly aimed at young adults, and will therefore influence the romance culture of this decade. Cultural and generational differences are interesting.”

“Yes, you seem positively transfixed,” Markus says dryly, watching as the young man on screen chews nervously on his thumb as he waits for a text back, and Carl lets out a short laugh.

“Is it my fault that our species has evolved to enjoy this kind of garbage?”

“You say that like you never worried obsessively about getting a letter back from your crush,” Markus teases, “Should I remind you of Rosemarie?”

Carl glares at him. “I should have kicked you out the day you found that damned sketchbook,” he says, and Markus chuckles, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off.

“They were wonderful portraits, Carl,” he says, “Did you take your medicine this morning?”

“You do wonderful portraits too,” Carl says, completely ignoring the question, “Have you shown the young man yet?”

“I have not.” Markus stands, heads over to the cabinet where the pills are. “You’re supposed to take one of these with every meal – you’re late.”

“You should show him. He seems like a happy person, from your drawings. I think he’ll like them.”

Markus sighs, closes the cabinet drawer. “I’m showing him the paintings, today,” he says quietly, “If he asks to see my sketch book after that, then sure.”

“Ah.” Carl smiles, rolls his wheelchair over to him and looks at him with that knowing glint in his eye. “You’re nervous. He doesn’t know about them, does he?”

Markus leans against the cabinet, shakes his head. “He knows I’m in charge of the Gala,” he says, “But I haven’t told him anything else, really. Mostly I complain about Chapman, because it makes him laugh. I’ve been telling myself it’s because I want it to be a surprise, and maybe that’s true, but…”

“But you’ve also been putting it off because you’re worried he won’t like it,” Carl finishes, smiling gently.

“It’s stupid,” Markus admits, “But. I don’t know, Carl. Everything with Simon just… Happened so fast? And I’m not used to that. I’m not used to caring about a person this much after only a few months.”

“Which is _exactly_ why you should show him,” Carl says simply, “This kind of thing doesn’t happen often – at least not to you. People can fall in and out of love so quickly, can exaggerate their feelings and get lost in the insanity of it all. But you…” He pauses, looks him in the eye like he knows everything that’s going on in his head. “You don’t let yourself fall, Markus. You’re too cautious for that. Too rational. You may be a romantic at heart, but you’re serious about things. This is the first time I’ve seen you swept up by something you don’t have control over. Let it. It’s good for you.”

“Didn’t know you were a relationship counsellor,” Markus murmurs, and Carl snorts derisively.

“Show him your art,” he tells him firmly, “Let it scare you, but do it anyway. His opinion matters to you – more than any other person’s, I’d wager. So go get it. You don’t get anything without putting yourself out there, without doing what frightens you.”

Markus chews at the inside of his cheek. “I know you’re right. I just. I hope he likes them.”

“He will.” Carl says it like it’s evident, a simple, undeniable truth. He smiles again, that gentle, slightly impatient smile that Markus has seen so many times before. “In all the years we’ve known each other,” he says softly, “I have never seen you this fussed about a project. And we both know it’s not because it’s your job. You’ve been more passionate and hard-working these past few months than you’ve been in your life. And happier, too.”

“Is it that obvious?” Markus tries to smile, tries to play it off, but he knows Carl will see through it.

“Let yourself fall for this man, Markus. I know it doesn’t feel rational, but nothing that matters is ever based in rationality.”

“Carl,” Markus says, a soft laugh escaping his throat, “I gave up on rationality the moment I walked through that damned door.”

Carl grins. “Then what are you waiting for? _Go_.”

Markus leaves the house not twenty minutes later, paintings carefully wrapped and tucked under one arm and his heart hammering in his chest.

* * *

The small bell above the door somehow sounds louder when Markus steps inside, awkwardly shouldering the door open as he tries to keep the edges of the paintings from banging into anything. The familiar scent of incense and flowers fills his nose, and Simon’s voice rings from the back room.

“Just a second!”

“It’s me,” Markus calls back, walking over to the counter, and he grins as Simon immediately sticks his head out of the doorway, glasses lopsided and smile bright.

“Hi,” Simon says, “I was beginning to wonder if I’d see you at all this week!”

“Sorry.” Markus grimaces. “The Gala is next Friday, so I’ve been trying to get everything done. I didn’t mean to just disappear, especially after last time, I-”

“Markus,” Simon interrupts, grinning, “Relax. I know you’ve been busy. I got your text.”

“I was worried I’d gotten the number wrong,” Markus admits, “Your writing left something to be desired.”

Simon laughs. “I was worried you wouldn’t find the note. I feel like I should have given you my number sooner, but apparently nothing we do happens in a sensible order.”

“Like kissing on the first date?” Markus smiles, walking over to place the paintings down on the counter.

“Like sliding my number into your pocket on the first date, weeks after we actually met,” Simon says, grinning, “What’s with the parcels?”

“It’s Gala stuff,” Markus says, “I was, um. I was wondering if I could get your opinion, actually.”

If Simon’s surprised by the request, he doesn’t show it. “Of course. Can it wait a few minutes though? I got roses delivered and I’m dealing with the thorns.”

“Want some help?”

“Uuuh,” Simon hesitates, ducks back into the back room again before sticking his head back out, “Yes, actually, that’d be really good. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Markus says, pushing his sleeves up as he follows Simon inside, squeezing past shelving and doing a double take as he sees the giant heap of roses piled up on a table at the very back of the room. “Christ, how many roses did you buy?”

“ _Daniel_ bought them, actually,” Simon says flatly, “He ordered the wrong amount. I swear, he’s back for like two days and already something like this happens.”

“Oh, Daniel’s back?” Markus takes the pair of thick gloves and small knife Simon hands him, smiling as Simon huffs a deep sigh.

“Yeah, Sunday night.” Simon shakes his head. “I can’t fault him, really. He’s been stupidly happy since he stepped off that plane. I told you he was going to see his friend Connor, right? The day you met him?”

Markus nods, coming to stand beside Simon and starting to gently removing thorns from the flowers. “They had a falling out, didn’t they? And then Connor invited him over?”

“Right, well Connor actually ended up apologising,” Simon says, “And he meant it. He actually acknowledged all the things Daniel’s been killing himself over, about the family he used to work for. I told you Connor kind of fucked that up, right?”

“Yeah, you told me. So they’re all good now?”

“Better than good, actually.” Simon grins at him. “He’s got Daniel another job. It doesn’t start for a few more weeks, but there’s this couple that have a little girl called Alice, and they need help home-schooling her or something.”

“That’s great!” Markus cuts away another thorn, and then frowns. “But wait. What about the shop? Don’t you need him here?”

“He can still help out with the maths side of things when he’s there.” Simon shrugs. “I’ve honestly gotten kind of used to this place being mine? It was his idea, but this isn’t Daniel’s dream – it’s mine. He loves working with kids, it’s what he’s supposed to be doing. I can’t stop him, that wouldn’t be fair.”

“Now that I think about it – you never really waited for his input before making decisions about this place anyway. And not to discredit him, but you’ve done great by yourself.”

“Thanks.” Simon smiles, rocks forward on the balls of his feet and presses a quick kiss to Markus’s cheek. “I am going to miss having someone here, though,” he admits then, “It’s a little bit scarier, now this is officially my shop.”

“I’ll gladly be your underpaid employee,” Markus jokes, and Simon snorts a laugh.

“Might need to brush up on your bouquet skills,” he says wryly, “Besides, you have a job. Speaking of, what’s in the packages? I’m curious.”

Markus cuts off another thorn, places the rose in a bucket Simon has sitting next to the table. “So,” he starts, “You know how I’m in charge of the Gala?”

Simon nods, eyes focused on the flower he’s working on.

“Well, what I’ve been doing is design the theme of the event. I’ve put together the runway, the decorations, and I’ve also had to create a series of paintings to put by the entrance to sort of announce the theme for the evening. They’re small paintings, but they’re important, and I wanted your opinion before I show them to the higher ups.”

Simon puts the finished rose into the bucket. “Pressure’s on, then,” he says lightly, giving him a small smile, “Considering this is the first of your art I get to see.”

“About that,” Markus says, quietly, “If you wanted to, um. After the paintings, I mean. I’ve brought my sketchbook, so.”

Simon pauses, meets his eye. “You don’t have to, Markus,” he says cautiously, “That’s not a requirement, you know? It’s alright that your art is a private thing, I-”

“It’s not a private – It’s not-” Markus sighs, puts the rose he’s working on down. “It’s a fear thing,” he says then, “I’m scared of showing my art and it not being well received. I can deal with portfolios and professional things but when it’s the more personal sketches, well. They feel more vulnerable.” He looks at Simon then, at gentle blue eyes and blond hair that’s slightly messier than usual. “I want to show you,” he murmurs, “Because I’m tired of not sharing that part of myself with anyone.”

“That’s – Markus, you can share that with anyone you want, it doesn’t have to be-”

“Yes it does, though,” Markus interrupts, eyes downcast as he pulls off his gloves, “I want it to be you.”

Simon makes a soft sound, so quiet Markus almost misses it. He glances up at him, watches how Simon opens his mouth and pauses, hesitant, cautious, endlessly patient. “Can – can I see them, then?”

“Yes, yeah just - come on,” Markus says, and Simon takes off his gloves, following him back into the shop. He stands close to Markus side when they stand by the counter, and Markus fumbles with the wrapping paper, fingers slipping. Eventually, he peels away the packaging, lays all three paintings out side by side on the counter, and waits. 

Simon sucks in a breath. Markus bites down on his tongue.

They’re small paintings, just 14” by 10” canvases. He wouldn’t have had the time to do larger ones, and he wanted to take his time, with these. He wanted to get them right.

“C-can I-,” Simon murmurs, voice catching ever so slightly, fingers reaching out and hovering, and Markus nods.

“The paint’s dry, you can touch it,” he says quietly, and watches Simon trace the lines of the first painting, feeling it, touch agonisingly gentle like he’s afraid it’ll turn to dust under his fingertips.

“The theme I chose was Secret Garden,” Markus murmurs, “That first day in the shop, it just felt right. Like I could draw there for hours, and no one would find me. Except you.”

“You – this is the door, outside,” Simon says, eyes roaming over the canvas, fingers hovering over the painted doorway. The door in the painting is ajar, a small opening in a large stone wall, ivy running up and around the forest green frame. There’re cracks in the stone; an old, decaying building. Markus had made some changes, like the shop window – in the painting it’s older, foggier, hiding what’s behind it. All that can be made out is a warm golden light, a faint silhouette of someone watering some kind of plant. But the open door reveals a little bit more, shows shelves of tiny succulents and an old wooden chair; an invitation to come in. A secret to share.

Gently, Simon steps closer, arm brushing Markus’s as he looks at the second painting. This one shows the inside of the shop, with some details kept the same – the counter is still there, the shelving is more or less replicated exactly, but the fairy lights handing from the ceiling don’t stop at the other wall. They go on, lead into a crack in the wall, a gap large enough for a person to fit through. Beyond it there’s a path, going forward until it disappears behind a willow tree. Markus holds his breath, watches Simon drink in the details, like the forgotten mugs painted on the counter and the old bag leaning against one of the shelving units. His eyes don’t stay on them for long, keep flickering back to the gap in the wall, to the person standing by it, looking through it, a hand stretched out behind him, beckoning the viewer closer.

“That – is that me?” Simon asks, voice almost a whisper, fingers coming up to touch painted blonde hair and rolled up sleeves and the side of his face, half hidden behind shadows casted by golden lights.

“Yes.” Markus exhales slowly, one arm crossing over his own chest. “You see why I needed your verdict.”

Simon doesn’t say anything. He turns his head, looks at the third painting, and Markus tries not to panic when he hears his breath catch.

The stone path has lead away from the gap in the wall. The shop is far behind now, out of sight. But there are flowers, delicate and bursting with colours, both growing on grass and pushing through concrete, fighting the odds. The stone path turns into a bridge, small and arched, going over a body of water. There’re trees in the background, and the sun is only just starting to lower in the sky. A warm, spring afternoon. A man leans against the stone, delicate fingers shaping a bouquet, soft pink lips curved into a smile. A crown of daisies rests on messy blonde hair.

“I hope it’s alright,” Markus says quietly, “I was told to use whatever inspired me most. And I didn’t want to just draw some flowers with no feeling behind it. I wanted it to feel special, wanted to show how much thought and care went into creating a space like this.” He swallows, mouth uncomfortably dry. “I hope you don’t mind, being my muse. I just. Wanted to paint something beautiful. Something you don’t see in ordinary places. Something that makes you aware of how lucky you are to have found it in the first place.”

“These are beautiful,” Simon says thickly, “Why – why didn’t you tell me before?” He looks at Markus then, blue eyes wide and bright, and Markus takes in the freckle above his brow and the curve of his mouth and the way he’s looking at him, like he knows how to read him but wants his permission before he starts the chapter.

“I was scared,” he says truthfully, “I mean, I’ve only know you for a few months. I was worried three personalised paintings may have been on the verge of coming on too strong.”

Simon lets out a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You ridiculous man,” he says, shaking his head, and Markus opens his mouth to defend himself but then Simon’s kissing him.

“Does this mean you like them?” Markus manages, voice muffled against soft lips, and he must sound a bit too smug for Simon’s taste because teeth pull at his lower lip then, worrying delicate skin.

“I love them,” Simon breathes, “Can’t believe you just went off and fucking painted me.” Pale hands find Markus’s waist, dig into the fabric of his shirt, and Markus tries very, very hard not to shiver as Simon trails kisses across his jaw.

“I uh,” he starts, “I didn’t just – I mean there’s sketches. Um. I needed to practice.”

Simon pulls back. “You sketched me? Is that what you were doing, every day in the shop?”

“Not at first,” Markus says defensively, “Just. You were far more interesting than flowers. And then I got a little bit carried away by how easy this is, how right this feels. With you. Am I making sense?”

“Absolutely not,” Simon says, but he’s grinning, and then delicate hands are pulling him back and lips find his again, and Simon kisses him senseless as they stumble into the back room together.

“Careful,” Markus tries to say, hands flying to Simon’s shoulders to steady himself, but Simon takes his lips parting as an invitation, tongue sliding into his mouth, and Markus’ brain short circuits. He makes a muffled sound, presses himself closer, pushes Simon into the table and God, that might have hurt him, he should apologise, but then Simon lets out a choked noise that sounds suspiciously like a moan and Markus couldn’t really care less about anything that isn’t this kiss. He loses himself in it, swallows Simon’s quiet gasp as they sink down to the floor, and there’s something soft underneath him as Simon pushes him down, rose petals tickling at the back of his neck. Markus wraps his arms around him, pulls them chest to chest, wanting him closer, and _fuck_ , Simon smells _amazing_ ; flowers and cinnamon and incense that have clung to his clothes.

“Si,” he gasps, head tilting back as Simon’s teeth graze his neck, and Simon shivers, grip tightening on his waist. Markus’s hip move upwards of their own accord, and he would feel bad except Simon fucking _moans_ and this time there’s no ambiguity about it. It echoes in Markus’s brain, soft and open and so fucking beautiful, and he really doesn’t want this side of their relationship to start on the floor of Simon’s shop but _God_ , it just might if –

“ _Ow_ , fuck!”

“Are you okay?” Simon pulls back, cheeks flushed and lips wet, and Markus nods, hides his grin in the side of his neck.

“Thorns,” he mutters, and Simon snorts out a laugh, and that makes Markus laugh, and then all of a sudden they’re just sat there, dozens of roses crushed under them, and Simon’s laughter is loud and carefree and Markus can’t breathe, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he giggles helplessly.

“Fucking Christ,” he manages, wheezing the words out, and that only serves to make Simon laugh harder, shoving his face into his hands.

“So sorry to interrupt.” The voice comes from the door, sounding anything but apologetic, and Markus feels heat rush to his face as he sees Daniel standing there, arms crossed over his chest and a smug smile playing at his lips.

“Uh,” Markus says, brilliantly, and the smile grows.

“I see you found inspiration,” Daniel quips, and if Markus wasn’t completely red in the face before, he definitely is now.

“Fuck off, Daniel,” Simon says, pulling himself to his feet, and Markus scrambles up after him, brushing rose petals hastily off of himself.

“It’s nice to see you again,” he says, somewhat sheepishly, “How was your trip?”

“It was good,” Daniel says, “And I feel like we can forego the awkward conversation about you not hurting my brother or else, right?”

“ _Daniel_ ,” Simon hisses, mortified, but Daniel just holds Markus’s gaze, and despite the easy smile on his face Markus knows he isn’t completely joking.

“No worries there,” he says firmly, fingers interlacing with Simon’s, and Daniel’s eyes soften.

“Good.”

The conversation topic changes back to something flower related then, which Markus is grateful for, but there’s a part of him that’s a little bit glad for Daniel’s interruption. Simon keeps holding his hand as they talk, and the occasional squeeze and shy smile that stays on his face tells Markus that if there was an unofficial test to be Simon’s boyfriend, he’s just passed it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is UP i'm finally back with an update! we're getting closer to the end folks!!! also this chapter is incredibly self indulgent and i'd like to take this moment to reaffirm that FUCK david cage, thank u for your time,,,
> 
>  
> 
> in all seriousness your comments give me life and im SO THANKFUL for all the lovely things y'all have been saying, i'm SOB! i also realise that i havent been LINKING to things so again, i'm farouchedoncjevie on tumblr, feel free to hit me up there to chat OR if you'd like to commission me *insert 56765 eye emojis* but seriously talk to me i crave validation
> 
>  
> 
> hope u like this chapter i love u all!!!!!!!!!!!

 

> _Daisies, daisies perched upon your forehead  
>  Oh my baby, lately I know_  
>  _That every night I'll kiss you you'll say in my ear_  
> [Oh we're in love aren't we?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20pAJPNaAyw)

When the doorbell rings, Markus all but bolts out of his room and leaps down the stairs. Carl rolls through the living room doorway just as he reaches the landing, and he raises a single grey eyebrow at him.

“I’m in a wheelchair, Markus,” he says flatly, “Even if I wanted to embarrass you in front of this young man, I don’t have the arm power anymore to beat you places.”

“That is an outright lie,” Markus says, a bit breathless, “You try to outrun me on a daily basis and you’ve succeeded enough times that I have a reason for concern.”

“Oh, just open the door,” Carl snaps, but there’s a glint in his eye that warms his glare to something more mischievous than actually annoyed. Markus flashes him a grin, and pulls the heavy front door open.

Simon turns around to face him, hands in his pockets and a nervous smile on his face. “Hi,” he says, voice quieter than Markus has ever heard it, and Markus –

Well. Markus doesn’t have words, really.

The suit Simon is wearing matches his tie – a simple but elegant dark blue that contrasts beautifully with pale skin and blonde hair. He’s holding his suit jacket over his shoulder; a white pocket square to match his dress shirt. And _suspenders_ , a delicate beigey-pink, which have _no busine_ ss looking this good on him.

“I wasn’t sure – your text said formal and I wore this to a wedding last year and I thought-”

“It’s perfect,” Markus hears himself say, interrupting Simon’s nervous explanation, “You look - You look amazing.”

Simon visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping slightly and smile going to something softer.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, one hand going up to adjust his glasses, “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

There’s a moment where they just stand there, Simon’s blue eyes holding his, lips still curved in that shy smile that Markus keeps trying to sketch but can never get exactly right. They take each other in, the world silent save for the buzzing of a few insects and far-off cars, and Markus reaches out without having the conscious thought to do so, tucking a flyaway hair falling onto Simon’s forehead back into place.

Carl clears his throat behind them. “Would you perhaps like to come in?”

“Yes,” Markus says quickly, stepping aside to let Simon in, “That’s –Simon, this is Carl. Carl, this is Simon.”

“I figured,” Carl says, smiling and holding out a hand, “Pleased to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” Simon says, and he’s clearly nervous, shaking Carl’s hand like he’s meeting Markus’s dad on prom night. Carl looks positively delighted.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he tells him, “Markus has been telling me what a talented florist you are.”

“An exaggeration, really. I’ve heard a lot about you too.”

“Don’t believe a single word he says. How long have you owned your shop then?”

Markus takes that as his cue, gently squeezing Simon’s shoulder before leaving to gather his car keys and the bottle of wine Carl had insisted he bring with him. It’s expensive-looking, one of those bottles you can open without needing a corkscrew, and it had been slightly dusty when Carl had brought it out this morning, so Markus is ginger with it as he comes back down the stairs. He’s not particularly clumsy, but some things demand more cautiousness than others, like ambiguously aged wine. Carl makes a pleased noise when he spots it in Markus hand.

“That’s for you actually, Simon,” he says, “It’s important to show up at any kind of function with a bottle of wine. If you can’t impress a boss with anything else, getting him drunk is the way to go.”

“Wise words,” Simon says, smiling, and Markus rolls his eyes.

“Even if Kamski actually left his golden tower to go to this thing, there’s already going to be wine there, Carl. Besides, even if there weren’t – none of my bosses deserve this quality.”

Carl just stares at him. “In that case, he says simply, “Just drink it in the car on the way there.”

“Even wiser words,” Simon says, pulling the bottle from Markus’s grasp. Markus gives him a look, which Simon simply returns.

“What? They’re wise words, Markus.”

“Fine. But I’m not carrying you around if you get drunk.”

Simon scoffs, lightly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Please. It’s _wine_. I’ll be sober by the time we get there.”

“I like him,” Carl announces, and Markus shakes his head, turning to the front door.

“We’re going now,” he says, “Before you’re even more of a bad influence on him!”

“Have a nice night,” Carl calls, and Simon’s giggling quietly as Markus pulls him out of the house and into the cool night air.

“I think that went well,” Simon muses as they get into the car, and Markus hums, smiling to himself.

“You’ve officially got his blessing, I think.” He’s kidding, mostly, but the soft sigh of relief Simon lets out is genuine.

“He seems like a very good man,” he says as they drive off, and Markus watches with amused incredulity as Simon uncorks the bottle and takes a sip. “Fuck. A _great_ man. This is good wine. Do you happen to have a glass?”

“You know, when he said to drink it in the car, I thought you were both joking,” Markus says, “And no, Si. I don’t keep a wine glass in my car.”

“Pity,” Simon says, grinning, and takes another sip, “Relax. I promise I won’t get drunk.”

“I won’t be mad if you do,” Markus says, “I’d probably drink my way through this thing if I could.”

“Nervous?”

“A bit. Mostly not looking forward to hearing some of my colleagues’ passive-aggressive comments.”

“Like that Perkins asshole you told me about?”

Markus snorts. “Yeah. He’s definitely going to be one of them. CL’s best and brightest fuckwit.” This makes Simon laugh, and Markus smiles, briefly taking his eyes off the road to see the way his eyes crease at the corners.

“What does CL stand for anyway?” Simon asks then, and Markus shrugs.

“No idea. I don’t really think it stands for anything - the CEO, Kamski, probably picked it because it sounded nice. Though some of my colleagues joke that it stands for CyberLife, because everyone who’s seen him keep saying he always has this blank, almost robotic expression on his face, like an android that came to life.”

“Creative.”

“We try to have fun.”

“Maybe it’s all a ploy,” Simon says, “Maybe he’s not the robot - you all are, and he’s trying to tell you the truth.”

“That would explain so much,” Markus says, with a mock gasp, “Perkins was _programmed_ to be a dick.”

“The worst kind of robot,” Simon agrees, bringing the wine bottle to his mouth, “That said, I don’t think you’d be a good robot, either. But that’s because you’d probably be the one to start a revolution, kill off all the humans.”

“Excuse you! I’d be a peaceful martyr leading my fellow androids to freedom. Like Robot Moses.”

Simon sniggers into his wine.

“That would be a cool movie.”

“It would. You could be my dashing sidekick,” Markus muses, and then, because it’s warm in the car and Simon’s relaxed and still giggling, “The one who gives me counsel and then at the end we share a dramatic kiss.”

In his peripheral vision, Markus sees Simon turn his head to smile at him. “That would be a good ending,” Simon says quietly, and it’s too dark to see, but Markus likes to imagine his cheeks have gone that soft shade of pink again.

“That said,” Simon says then, “With the way things are portrayed in the media - they’d probably use me as queer bait and kill me off, and waste what could be an amazing strong female character by making her nothing more than your love interest for the aforementioned dramatic kiss.”

“Boring,” Markus replies, shaking his head, “Dramatic implies chemistry. Otherwise it falls flat.”

“Tell that to mainstream media.”

“Fuck the media,” Markus says, waving a hand dismissively, “We’ll write our own story.”

Simon laughs again, and it’s soft.

“I’d like that. Can the kickass female character be a lesbian?”

“Everyone’s gay in this story, Simon,” Markus says, very seriously, and Simon’s grinning, leaning over to press a quick kiss to Markus’ cheek.

“Perfect.”

Markus has made this drive many times before, knows all the awkward places in the roads and the fastest way to get there, and yet a journey that usually takes about forty odd minutes if the traffic’s good feels like it takes fifteen. They talk the entire way there, Simon slowly sipping away at his wine until he’s just on the right side of tipsy, and he’s so soft and relaxed and giggly that Markus almost misses the venue, and has to awkwardly slam on the breaks and reverse a bit before pulling into the parking lot. Simon giggles more at this, head tilting back against the headrest of his seat, and Markus leans over to lightly nip below his jaw in retaliation.

“Hey!” Simon swats at him, but it’s playful, and Markus steals a kiss before he opens his door and steps out.

It’s at that precise moment, looking towards the small but fancy building where two people are standing by the entrance and sipping on what looks like champagne, that Markus realises that he is, in fact, nervous.

“Fuck,” he mutters, stomach twisting, and slams his car door shut.

“You okay?” Simon asks, coming to stand in front of him, and the jerky nod Markus gives him leaves him unimpressed. He holds Markus’ gaze, and Markus sighs.

“Turns out I am nervous,” he admits, “For some reason it didn’t actually hit me until just now that  a bunch of strangers are going to be judging my work.”

Simon hums, hands moving up to gently straighten Markus’s tie and brush off the shoulder pads of his suit.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says then, gentle yet firm, “Anyone who doesn’t absolutely love what you’ve done is a moron with no taste, and therefore their opinion does not matter.”

“You may be slightly biased,” Markus points out, and Simon shrugs.

“I mean it, though. I seriously doubt anyone will say anything less than positive. Mostly because you’re unbelievably talented and your passion and hard work shows, but also because I’m the subject of your paintings.” He grins then, sharp. “People may think twice about saying anything unhelpfully negative unless they want the paintings to come to life and punch them.”

Markus snorts a laugh, and lets Simon gently tug his tie, pulling him down into a kiss. His lips are cold and he tastes like expensive wine, and as his hands smooth down his arms Markus feels his stomach slowly untwist.

“Thank you,” he murmurs as he pulls away, and Simon smiles, takes his hand in his and squeezes.

“Come on,” he says, and pulls him towards the venue, “I want to judge your co-workers from afar and find some secluded corner to make out in.”

When they step inside, they’re immediately accosted by the sound of loud chattering and the faint scent of sweat. There’re more people than Markus was expecting, and a frazzled looking waiter rushes past them to what he assumes is the kitchen, the tray he’s holding empty save for a few half-eaten amuse-bouches. Simon blanches a little, unconsciously moves closer to his side, and Markus can’t blame him – it’s a lot. But he leads the way, gently weaves through smattering of people towards the main space and keeping his head ducked as he passes the wall where his paintings have been displayed. There’s a small crowd there, gathered around them, which is as surreal as it is terrifying, and he’s not really ready for that kind of attention yet. They walk in through the big wooden doors that have been propped open for the night, and Markus can’t see properly because of all the people but he takes a step to the side and hears Simon suck in a breath and then there’s a gap in the crowd and his shoulders relax all at once.

It’s beautiful, is the thing. And he probably should be more modest but fuck that, he’s proud. It’s a small section of the room, only the far right corner really, but it’s exactly the way he pictured. Large stone tiles have been laid out to form a path, sort of like stepping stones, and fairy lights and fake ivy hang above it, leading from one end of the path to the other where they trail to the floor in a sort of curtain, leaving a gap just big enough for the models to walk through. There’re candles in tall, golden candle sticks, and the chairs that have been set up around the runway have been delicately wrapped in garlands of leaves and delicate white flowers. The ones around the chairs are fake, but Markus had put his foot down for the other ones; daises littered over the makeshift pathway and lots of other ones he can’t even remember the name of, chained together around the trail of fairy lights a select few hanging lower, just above head-level. The ceiling lights for that part of the room have been dimmed significantly, so everything is awash in a soft golden glow. It looks private, secluded despite the crowd around it. The stone bridge from the park has become simple tiles and the fairy lights aren’t globes, but the memories are there. A secret garden, with unspoken references that only he and Simon understand.

“Markus,” he hears Simon say, and meets wide blue eyes framed by those damned glasses that Markus now knows are a little bent, which is why they sit lopsided. He knows Simon’s been too lazy to go and fix them, despite the fact that it annoys him to no end that they always sit squint and slide down his nose. He knows Simon loves wearing comfy sweaters but hates cold weather, knows his favourite flowers are lilies because of a film he saw when he was seventeen, knows he’s still gets afraid if his feet aren’t covered by the duvet when he’s in bed in case something grabs them. Markus knows his favourite ice cream flavour is vanilla because he’s boring but he has an endless list of favourite teas and his hidden talent is singing because really he’s not boring at all, he just says he is because despite everything he can be self-deprecating, at times. Markus knows his smiles and mannerisms and the way he throws his head back when something really makes him laugh, knows his eyes look green sometimes if the lighting’s right. He knows a lot about Simon now, so many pieces of information collected over the course of these past months, and so when he meets Simon’s gaze, he knows it means that Simon likes the work he’s done. And when he grins at him in gentle disbelief and rocks up on his tiptoes to press their lips together, Markus knows that he is in love with this man, as sudden and insensible as that is.

“It looks amazing,” Simon’s saying, pulling back, and Markus would thank him except he’s a little blindsided by his recent realisation and he doesn’t want to speak in case it leaves his mouth in a rush. It’s too soon, and he doesn’t want to do it here. So instead he smiles back, ducks his head, and lets the thought dance gently across his mind as he listens to Simon compliment him on his choice of flowers.

“I did remember some of the things you taught me,” he manages, “I was a bit nervous because it meant leaving a lot of the set up till the last minute, but they followed my instructions well.” He turns back to the runway, smiles at the lights and colours coming together. “Remind me to get those interns some kind of thank you gift, like muffins or something. They really deserve a raise but I don’t have that kind of power.”

“I will,” Simon says, “You could send them all thank you bouquets. I’d give you a discount.”

“Markus!” A voice interrupts them before Markus can reply with something witty, and he turns around to find a source to it, only to be met with an armful of North.

“Hi,” he says, arms flying to her shoulders in surprise, because he’s worked with North for years and she is not a very physically affectionate person. She’s grinning as she pulls away, beautiful as ever.

“This looks _fantastic_ , Markus,” she tells him excitedly, and a closer look at her eyes tells Markus she may be teetering on the edge of tipsy to flat-out drunk. He smiles to himself, steadies her as she gestures animatedly towards the runway. “When I heard you were in charge of this I felt really bad for you but you’ve fucking crushed it!”

“Thanks. It was a goddamn mess of a situation, don’t get me wrong, but it was also one of the best experiences I’ve ever had.” Markus pointedly does not look at Simon as he says the last part, but intertwines their fingers together anyway. “North, this is Simon. Simon, this is North – we work together.”

“Hi,” Simon says brightly, and North’s eyes widen in recognition.

“You’re the muse,” she realises, and then she laughs, shakes his hand in greeting. “I guess in a way you’re responsible for this too, then. It’s great to meet you.”

“I actually didn’t know I would be a part of this until the last minute,” Simon says, cheeks flushed, “But thank you! It’s lovely to meet you two – I think Markus has mentioned you before. Were you the one with the donut incident or am I thinking of someone else?”

North gives him a sharp, smug grin. “That was me.”

“The fact that you didn’t get caught is still a miracle to me,” Markus says flatly, and she snorts.

“Please. I knew what I was doing. And you’re one to talk. You covered me while I brought them to Perkins’ office.”

It’s a bit unfair, considering Markus didn’t know she’d laced them with laxatives, but Simon laughs and presses closer to his side, so he doesn’t mind, really.

“That’s just who I am, I suppose. A real rebel.”

North laughs, takes a breath like she’s about to form a witty comeback, but then her eyes rest on something over Markus’s shoulder and the colour in her face drains, her mouth left open in shock.

“Rebels are the men most useful to our society, in my humble opinion.” It’s a voice Markus hasn’t heard before, words spoken carefully and with a slight lilt to them, and when he turns around to see the person the voice belongs to his grip on Simon’s hand tightens and he’s frozen, rooted to the spot.

“Mr. Kamski,” he manages, choked, and in his peripheral vision he can see North’s shoulders stiffen and Simon’s mouth part in surprise.

“Please, call me Elijah. And you’re Markus Manfred, if I’m not mistaken?” Kamski smiles, and Markus comes back to his senses just in time to take the hand that the man offers him. His skin is cold, and icy blue eyes seem to stare right through him.

“Yes,” Markus says, “That’s me. I wasn’t aware you would be joining us this evening – what a pleasant surprise.”

Kamski laughs, short and quiet, and everything Markus has ever heard about this man suddenly seems a lot more rooted in truth than he’d previously thought. Eccentric. Intelligent. Intimidating. Disarming. Possibly killed a man once.

“I tend to avoid these functions, if I’m honest,” Kamski says, “And I’ve been rather busy, as of late. But I happened to chance upon one of your sketches last month and I was… Intrigued.” He hesitates before saying the word, like he needed to carefully select it from a list. Markus, inexplicably, feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Thank you?” he replies, and it sounds unsure even to his ears.

“You’ve done some wonderful work on the paintings in the hall,” Kamski continues, and then his eyes flicker to Simon, who shifts closer to Markus’ side, “Wonderful artistic choices.”

“I – thank you, sir. I’m glad you - ”

“Have you met Mr. Slate yet?”

“I’m sorry?”

Kamski’s smile grows. “Ah, no matter. A good friend of mine. He will come introduce himself in a moment, I’m sure. We were just talking earlier.” He leans close then, close enough to be able to murmur in Markus’ ear. “I do believe you’re going to do great things, Markus.” He takes a step back then, eyes still fixed on his, and nods vaguely towards North an Simon, standing by Markus’s side. “I hope to see you around. Have a good evening.”

With another small, cool smile, Kamski turns and leaves, and Markus stares dumbly at the space left behind.

“What,” says North, after a few seconds of stunned silence, “The _fuck_ was that about?”

“I have _no_ idea,” Markus says truthfully, “But I guess he likes my work? Maybe?”

“You weren’t kidding about CyberLife,” Simon interjects, voiced hushed, “I don’t mean to be rude but that man does not give off vibes of pleasantness and safety.”

“Definitely gave me the creeps.” North gives an exaggerated shudder. “I’m gonna head off. There’s a pretty waitress somewhere that I was talking to, and I need a distraction after whatever that was. I’ll see you later, Markus – it was lovely meeting you, Simon!”

“Bye,” Markus says, but she’s already gone, leaving Simon with a bemused smile on her face, hand raised in a wave she didn’t see.

“I like her,” he says.

“She’s scamming you. The North I know could break you in a second.”

“I still like her.”

Markus laughs, and presses a kiss to Simon’s lips because he can. “C’mon,” he says, “I want to see how they arranged my paintings to make it so _Kamski_ paid attention to them.”

They slink back through the crowd, with most people moving to get seats for the fashion show, which a colleague of Markus’ announces will start soon. He’s not entirely uninterested – wants to see how the clothes his colleagues chose will go with his theme, but first, he wants to take the opportunity and avoid the gaggle of people surrounding his work, and  look at his paintings again. And it seems he chose the right moment, because when they reach the corridor, there is only one man still standing by them.

“They’re as beautiful as I remember them,” Simon murmurs when they stop in front of them, and Markus smiles, presses a kiss to the back of his hand.

“If you like them, that’s all I can ask for.”

Simon gives him a look, like a man unimpressed by a joke, and Markus shakes his head.

“I mean it,” he says, “I was worried, when we first came in, at what people would think. But then I realise I don’t particularly care what they do or don’t see in them. They can make it what they want for themselves, but I know who the paintings are really for. And if he likes them, then I don’t care if the rest of the world doesn’t.”

Simon exhales, quiet and soft. “Markus,” he says then, “Could you shut the fuck up with your poetic, romantic ramblings that are always so much better than mine?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“No – just, shush.” Simon kisses him, a disgruntled peck of the lips. “You can either be a wordsmith or a painter. Not both. I will not be physically or emotionally able to handle both.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a wordsmith,” Markus says quietly as Simon pulls away, “But does this mean you like me?”

“I like you a ridiculously irresponsible amount.”

Markus grins, contemplates pushing Simon up against the wall and kissing him stupid, but then the man standing not far from them reminds Markus of his existence as he clears his throat.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, taking a step closer to them, “But am I right in saying that you’re Markus Manfred, the artist?”

“You would be right, yes,” Markus says, smiling. The man looks familiar; on the older side with grey hair tied back into a neat ponytail, and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles back.

“I’m Jim Slate,” he says, shaking Markus’ hand, “I’m an art collector – recently opened a gallery in the city. I’ve been meaning to speak to you.”

“ _Slate_ , of course,” Markus realises all at once, stomach lurching with excitement as memories of articles and television appearances flood to the forefront of his mind, “I read one of your interviews just the other day, I – it’s an honour to meet you.”

“I’ll cut right to the chase then, seeing as you know who I am. I’d like you to have an exhibit at my gallery next year. If you’d be interested in this, I’d like to set up a meeting with you in the coming months to discuss any existing works you’d like to showcase or any ideas you may have for new paintings. I love your style and think your work deserves an audience outside of the fashion industry.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s repeating a well-rehearsed slogan, and then pauses, expectant.

Markus has lost the ability to speak.

“I- You – I,” is what comes out, stuttered syllables with no meaning. Markus swallows, closes his eyes for a split second and opens them again. Slate is still there, waiting. It’s real.

“I would love that,” he manages, and Simon’s holding his hand tight, nails digging into skin, grounding him, “You have no idea – that would mean _everything_ to me. _Yes_ , yes please.”

“Wonderful.” Slate smiles at him, and hands him a card, basic white with black letters, unassuming for something that Markus knows is going to change his life completely. “Phone me at this number at some point next week, and we can discuss things further. I look forward to working with you.” Then, with no more than a polite nod, he turns and leaves, out of the door and into the cool night air.

It’s silent for all of three seconds before Simon lets out a strangled noise.

“What the fuck,” he says, turning to stare at him with wide eyes, “Markus what the _fuck_ – that’s _brilliant_. What even _is_ this evening?”

Markus doesn’t know. His hands are shaking, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh, scream or cry. So he does the only thing he can think of doing, lets the emotions run over and crash down like a tidal wave, moving his arms without his permission as he turns and pulls Simon close, bringing their lips together.

A soft noise of surprise leaves Simon’s throat, and Markus swallows it, presses him against the wall, against the paintings, and buries his hands in soft blond hair. Vaguely, he feels Simon’s hands fist the lapels of his jacket, holding him close, and then his lips part and everything else fades away. For a moment there’s nothing but soft hair and soft lips and Simon’s soft noises in the quiet, and then Markus comes back down to earth and there’s people talking in the other room and his bosses are around somewhere and he suddenly needs to be literally anywhere other than here. He pulls back, sucking in a breath.

“Can we leave?”

Simon’s pink in the face and breathless. “Please take me home,” is what he says, and then his hand is in Markus’s and he’s pulling him out into the night, and Markus is drunk on laughter and exhilaration and _love_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, guys, this it it.  
> I want to thank you all so much for all your lovely comments and for reading. It means more than you know. Shout out to Ceeridwen99 because you've commented on like every chapter and every time I get so giddy and excited beCAUSE YOURE SO NICE WHAT THE FUCK. But thank you to all of you. I Love You All So Much.
> 
> I hope I did this fic justice, and I hope you enjoy this last chapter! 
> 
> And once again, fuck david cage.

 

 

> _With golden streams_  
>  _Our universe was clothed in light_  
>  _Pulling at the seams_  
>  _Our once flaring world now friends with fire_  
>  _We may fall in love_  
>  _[Every time we open up our eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOQrfLFDUKY) _
> 
>  

Simon’s flat is nice. The stairwell leading up to his apartment door is dark and cold, but once they’re inside and have abandoned jackets and shoes by the front door, everything is warm white walls and photo frames and wall hangings, plants carefully arranged by every window and one of those thick, hand knit blankets draped over an old but comfortable sofa in the living room.

Not that Markus is really paying attention to the décor.

“God, this thing can be so impractical,” Simon mutters against his lips, clumsily shoving at the blanket bunched up underneath him. Markus laughs softly, catches a corner with his right hand and tugs it.

“Lift,” he says, and Simon obeys with a grin, arches up so Markus can arrange the blanket into something flatter so he can lie back properly.

“Thanks,” Simon says, fingers curling into the fabric of Markus’s shirt as he pulls him closer. “Item of comfort my ass. It’s falling apart as well.”

“Terrible,” Markus agrees, and kisses him.

He feels a little bit bad about how haphazardly he’d parked the car outside, and he knows he’ll get some snide comment from Perkins at some point for leaving the Gala so early, but the pleased noise Simon makes against his lips makes it very, very difficult to think about any of that. Gently, Markus trails his tongue over Simon’s bottom lip, and Simon opens his mouth eagerly, pushing himself closer, as close as he can get. He’s warm, so very warm, cheeks tinted pink and glasses abandoned on the coffee table, suspenders already pushed off his shoulders, and it feels so good to just _kiss_ him, to press him into that impractical blanket and swallow every soft sound that escapes his throat. He’s quite happy just doing this, happy to just keep kissing Simon until they both run out of air, but then Simon shudders, fingers digging into Markus’s arms as he pulls away and stares up at him with eyes blown black.

“Not that I’m not loving this,” he says, cheeks flushed, “But I don’t think this couch has the structural integrity necessary for this to go where I think it’s going.”

Markus swallows. “May I perhaps be overly presumptuous and make a suggestion?”

“Please do.”

“Bed?”

“God, yes,” Simon says, pushing himself up, “Down the hall, door with the coat hanging on it.”

They make it two feet out of the living room before Markus catches Simon’s hand and pulls him back towards him, making a mental note for later to further investigate the delighted yelp he makes as he stumbles and Markus catches him. For now, he crowds Simon against the wall and claims his lips again, swallowing breathless laughter. His hands find Simon’s hips, thumbs hooking into the belt loops of his pants, and he’s rewarded with a soft, but undeniably frustrated moan.

“We are _not_ doing this in my hallway,” Simon insists, words mumbled against Markus’s mouth, and Markus grins, gently tugs at Simon’s lower lip with his teeth.

“No?” He asks innocently, and Simon huffs another laugh, hands going to his shoulders and turning them both around.

“ _No_ ,” he confirms, and this time, Markus lets him lead him to his bedroom. Simon struggles with the doorknob, rusty and half hanging off, and he mutters something about old apartment buildings and shitty landlords that Markus doesn’t really hear, instead choosing to trail kisses down the back of his neck, hands sliding back down to his waist as he presses his chest to Simon’s back. Simon shivers, breath hitching when Markus brushes his fingers just above his waistband, teasing touches through the fabric of his shirt.

“You are _so_ unhelpful,” he mutters, and Markus chuckles against his neck.

“I can stop,” he murmurs, lips brushing over soft skin and finally, _finally_ the fucking door opens.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” is all Simon says, and then he drags him into the room.

And Markus would stop and take in his surroundings, maybe tease Simon about the cloud-patterned pyjamas draped over the headboard of his bed or the picture of him and Daniel, aged maybe eight, that’s sitting on his drawer, but he’ll have time for all that later. Right now, Simon’s smiling against his lips, and when he pulls back and looks up at him, blue eyes bright in the darkness and the soft light of the moon on the side of his face, Markus falls in love all over again.

“You’re so beautiful.” He says it because it’s true, because he wants to, almost doesn’t have to think the words before he speaks them. Simon makes a near-silent sound in the back of his throat, fingers moving to Markus’s tie as he looks up at him, and Markus is suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

“Can I?” Simon asks, quiet, and Markus almost laughs at the absurdity of the question, almost tells him he’d give him anything, everything, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods, and Simon kisses him again. It’s gentle, almost chaste compared to the ones shared only minutes before, and gentle fingers tug at his tie, pulling it loose and letting it fall to their feet.

“I don’t – we don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want,” Markus murmurs, catching Simon’s hand before it moves to his shirt buttons, “I don’t want you to think you have to, I mean.”

“I know I don’t have to,” Simon says, and the smile he gives him is small, a shy curling of the lips. “But I want to. If you do, too.”

“I do. I want to very much, actually.”

Simon huffs a quiet laugh, rocks up on his tiptoes to press his lips to the corner of Markus’s mouth. “Then let me take off your shirt.”

Markus does. Things get kind of hazy after that.

For a moment, he’s distracted by Simon’s soft breaths and cool fingers caressing the skin of his stomach in a slow but steady path downwards, but then some blood finally reaches his brain, cutting through the fog, and he remembers to move. Clumsy fingers find Simon’s shirt, battling one button after the other until finally he can slide the soft material down Simon’s arms and let it fall down to join his in a heap on the floor. Simon smiles, he can feel it against his shoulder when Simon hides his face there, and then pale hands grab his waist and the world spins, tilts on its axes as Simon turns them and falls backwards, pulling Markus with him so they land together on soft sheets.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Markus says, a little bit breathless, and Simon hums, pulls him closer as if to prove a point.

“Did you think I was _delicate_?” he murmurs, and despite the darkness Markus can still see the way his eyebrows raise, can still watch his lips curl into a cocky, teasing smile that’s as wonderful as the rest of him.

“My mistake.” Markus lowers his head, presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

“You can leave marks, if you want,” Simon says, deceptively nonchalant for the way he tilts his head back and tenses, and Markus laughs softly against pale skin.

“Alright.”

And he’d been wanting to do so, had hoped that it’d be something Simon would like, but the gasp that tears from Simon’s throat as Markus gently bites at his neck tells him he severely underestimated just how _much_ Simon would like it.

“So, biting is a thing for you?” It’s smug, even to his own ears, and Simon responds with a light punch to Markus’s arm.

“Shut up,” he says, even as he leans into Markus’s touch, “Biting is one of the most universal kinks – I’m not special.”

“I beg to differ.” Markus hides his smile in the crook of Simon’s neck, presses a light kiss there, then another one just below that spot. Simon exhales shakily, squirms as Markus kisses his shoulder, his chest, just above his stomach. He slides his hands down Simon’s sides, curls his fingers around the waistband of his pants. He looks up, takes in parted lips and wide blue eyes.

“Is it okay if I-”

“Yes,” Simon says quickly, and Markus laughs, shakes his head.

“No, but I-”

“ _Yes_ , Markus. Fuck me.”

Markus stares. “I was gonna ask if I could blow you.”

“Oh. Well, yes to that too.”

Markus straightens up, keeps his eyes locked on Simon’s face, looking for any sign of hesitance. “Is – do you want that? With me?”

And as Simon looks away from him, chewing at his lower lip as he gives Markus a hybrid between a shrug and a nod, Markus realises he might not be the only one that’s in way over his head already. Gently, he moves back up Simon’s body and kisses him, slow and sweet, thumb caressing one annoyingly perfect cheekbone as Simon sighs into his mouth.

“Gonna need a verbal answer, Si,” he murmurs, and Simon shivers.

“I – if you want to,” he says, fingers tugging at the pillowcase by his head, and when Markus kisses him again he’s rewarded with a moan so quiet he almost misses it.

“I do,” Markus tells him, “But I need a clear yes from you, Si. I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“God,” Simon huffs, sounding almost exasperated, “Why are you so fucking _wonderful_ all the time?”

“My mother made us listen exclusively to Disney music when I was growing up,” Markus deadpans, and it has the desired effect – Simon bursts into incredulous giggles, and most of the nervous tension seeps out of him as he claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the laughter.

“So, do I have your consent?” Markus asks, grinning, and Simon pulls him down into a kiss that’s more teeth clacking together than anything else, too busy smiling to coordinate properly.

“You ridiculous man”, he says, giddy from laughter and warm to the touch, “ _Yes_ , you have my full consent.”

And that’s all Markus needs to hear, leaning down to kiss him properly as he finally gives in and rolls his hips against Simon’s. He’s rewarded with a strangled moan that he nearly misses, too distracted by the jolt of pleasure the sudden friction brings, reminding him just how turned on he is. His hands slide down Simon’s body again, finding the button of his pants as he reluctantly pulls away and rises up on his knees. Simon immediately lifts his hips, and Markus hooks his fingers over the waistbands of his pants and boxers and pulls them down and off of him, revealing creamy white skin he immediately wants to mark with blue and purple and yellow – a smattering of colours that scream that this, right now, is his. He doesn’t, though, not yet – instead brushes his lips just under his navel, hiding a smile as Simon’s hips jerk.

“I should’ve known you were a tease,” Simon breathes, and Markus makes non-committal sound, lifting his head to smile at him as he curls his fingers around Simon’s cock.

“ _Fuck_.” Blue eyes flutter closed and Simon parts his lips on a gasp, and he’s warm in Markus’s hand, warm and soft and _slick_. Markus gently swipes his thumb over the tip, spreading the wetness he finds there, and Simon makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper.

“Would it be alright,” Markus asks quietly, keeping his grip just a little too light to give Simon the friction he wants, “If I put my mouth on you?”

Simon curses, nods and bites down on his lower lip, fingers scratching at the sheets. Markus smiles, ducks his head, and takes his cock into his mouth.

And granted, he hasn’t done this often. Once or twice in college, with people he can no longer remember the name of. But as rare as those experiences were, they were enough for him to know that he _loves_ it. So he pushes past initial trepidation, flicks his tongue against the underside of Simon’s cock and hollows his cheeks as he takes him deeper, and any lasting nervousness he feels disappears as Simon lets out a low, stuttered moan. He sucks lightly, begins to move his head up and down and focuses on Simon’s reactions, on how his breathing grows unsteady when he swirls his tongue around the head of his cock, the quiet whimper when he scratches at the skin of his thighs, the way he jerks and gasps when he presses the tip of his tongue against his slit. Markus hums softly, quiet encouragement for every sound that tumbles out of Simon’s mouth, and listens to unsteady breaths as they start to come faster and faster.

“Markus, Ma- _ah_. _Fuck_.” Pale fingers find his head, sliding against his scalp as though they’re looking for hair to grab on, and Simon’s hips jerk as he keens softly. “You can’t – I’m not gonna last.”

Markus hums, pulls off of him. “So don’t,” he says simply, and Simon shakes his head, breathing harshly.

“No, but, I want you to-” he begins, and Markus interrupts him with a light bite to the inside of his thigh that pulls a strangled sound from red-bitten lips.

“I will,” he says softly, gently kissing the spot where his teeth had dug in, “But I want to make you come first. Can I do that?”

“Fucking Christ,” Simon says, head falling back against the pillow with a defeated sort of thump, “Okay. Yeah, fuck.”

“Thank you,” Markus says, and Simon raises his head just in time to give him a look that’s equal parts incredulous and fond before Markus takes him into his mouth again.

It doesn’t take much longer, after that. Simon’s wound up too tightly, they both are, and the tension just keeps building steadily as Markus sucks him off, Simon’s hips stuttering and arching off the bed with every strategic flick of his tongue. Soft gasps turn into short, high-pitched moans, and then Simon’s hands fist the sheets on either side of him, eyes fluttering closed and teeth digging into his lower lip, and he comes with a broken cry that Markus is going to replay in his mind over and over again for at least the next year of his life.

“Jesus Christ,” is all Simon manages, chest heaving, and Markus struggles not to laugh as he swallows, because choking is the last thing he wants to do right now.

“Okay?” he asks, crawling back up his body, and Simon kisses him in lieu of an answer, soft sounds of satisfaction getting lost in the space between them.

“I wanna suck you off,” Simon mumbles then, and Markus’ brain nearly short-circuits at the words alone, “Been thinking about it – _fuck_ , for ages.”

“Okay,” Markus says dumbly, and Simon laughs quietly against his mouth.

“But,” he murmurs, “I also really, _really_ want you to fuck me. So can we do that first? Promise I’ll suck you off first thing tomorrow.” He’s smiling, teasing blue eyes fluttering open to meet his, and Markus’ mouth is so very, very dry all of a sudden.

“I – God, yeah. Yes, we can do that.” He barely manages to choke the words out, leaning down to kiss Simon before he’s even finished speaking, swallowing soft giggles, and he needs to focus, needs to do this properly, needs –

“Lube,” he mutters, “I need lube. Please tell me you have lube.”

“Top drawer,” Simon says, grinning as he gestures to his bedside table, and Markus sends a silent prayer of thanks to any God that may be listening for bringing this man into his life as he rummages in the drawer and grabs both a bottle of lube and a condom.

“Are these always here?” he hears himself asking, even as he trails kisses along Simon’s collarbone and lightly brushes his fingers down the soft skin of his inner thigh, “Or did you just think I was a sure thing?”

“You can’t blame a man for being cautiously optimistic,” Simon replies breathlessly, still smiling even as he lets out a quiet moan, and Markus – _God_ , Markus loves him. He doesn’t say it; not here, not now. Instead, he brings his lips to Simon’s neck, teeth grazing his skin as he fumbles with the bottle of lube and pops the cap open. Simon’s breath catches, legs parting as Markus drizzles lube over his fingers, and Markus barely has the sense of mind left to warm the stuff up before bringing those fingers down to Simon’s entrance, as hopelessly gone as he is for him.

“Okay?” he asks again, and the noise Simon makes is exasperation and desperation rolled into one.

“Yes,” he says, leaning into his touch, “ _Please_.”

And Markus nearly moans at the sudden _want_ that goes through him at the word, the want to spend hours in this bed, the want to tease and wind Simon up just to hear him say that word again, just to hear him gasp and moan and _beg_ for him.

 _Later_ , he tells himself firmly, pushing through the cloud of lust fogging his brain, and gently slides the tip of his index finger inside of him.

He takes his time, opening Simon up. It’s partially because he doesn’t want to hurt him, but mostly because when he starts, he doesn’t want to stop. Simon’s head tilts back, mouth opening on a moan that can only be described as pornographic, and he’s so _into_ this, so beautifully responsive to every slick drag of Markus’ fingers, that Markus realises that if he wanted to, he could make Simon come from this alone. He has other plans though, and so does Simon, if the low moan he gives when Markus is two fingers deep is anything to go by.

“M’okay,” he stutters then, “You can – you can stop, I’m ready.”

“Not yet,” is all Markus says, slowly spreading his fingers wide, and Simon _whimpers_.

“For fuck’s sake,” he manages, “Markus, _please_ , I can’t -”

“Indulge me.” Markus adds a third finger, slow and gentle, revelling in the sharp cry that tears from Simon’s throat when he curls his fingers just so, bumping against that spot inside of him. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he breathes, awestruck, and Simon lets out a wrecked sound, hands grabbing at the sheets.

“I swear to God,” he grits out, “If you don’t fuck me in the next five seconds I’m leaving.”

“Doubtful,” Markus says, stifling a smile as he brushes his lips over Simon’s forehead, and carefully pulls his fingers out. Simon whines at the loss, impatient hands sliding down between their bodies to find the button of Markus’ pants.

“Why the fuck are you still dressed,” he mutters, sounding for a moment so genuinely offended that Markus can’t help the bubble of laughter that spills out of his mouth.

“I was preoccupied with other things,” he replies, leaning back to help, and then Simon’s pushing down his pants and underwear and Markus is shimmying out of them, and then pale, callused fingers finally wrap around Markus’ cock and Markus chokes out a moan, the sudden friction making his mind go blank.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Simon breathes, surging up to kiss him, and Markus shudders, brings his hands to Simon’s shoulders and presses him down into the mattress, rolling their hips together.

“Fuck me,” Simon says again, voice shaking, “C’mon, please, I can take it.”

Markus nods, presses a kiss to swollen lips as he clumsily grabs the condom and tears the packet open. He grits his teeth as he slides it on, that simple touch alone bringing him closer to the edge, and settles between Simon’s legs, taking a moment to marvel at how perfectly Simon’s thighs frame his hips, how easily Simon trusts him with this. He’s eager, leaning into his touches and head tilting back to meet his kisses, and impatient hands grab at Markus’s back, trying to urge him to move faster. Markus takes it slow, however, not because he doesn’t believe Simon about being able to take it but because he’s, well, _big_. He presses the tip of his cock to Simon’s entrance and slowly, _slowly_ pushes forward, keeping his eyes on Simon’s face and watching the way his teeth dig into his bottom lip.

“Okay?” he asks, stilling when Simon lets out a quiet hiss, and Simon nods, eyes sliding shut.

“Yeah,” he says, loosely wrapping his legs around Markus’s waist, “Yeah, just. It’s a lot.”

Markus reaches down and takes hold of his hand, bringing it up to his mouth to brush a kiss across his palm. “I’ve got you,” he says, somewhat shakily, and gently rolls his hips forward. Simon moans quietly, sucks in a sharp breath at the stretch, and Markus pauses again, wants to move back, but then Simon hooks his ankles together behind his back and pulls them in, keeping him where he is.

“Don’t you dare,” he warns, a breathless laugh spilling from his lips, and Markus exhales, carefully leaning down to kiss him as he threads their fingers together and holds Simon’s hands down on either side of his head. He waits for Simon’s body to relax, waits for him to sigh into his mouth, and then moves again, sliding in as gently as he can until his hips are flush against Simon’s ass. He stays like that for a moment, just lightly rocking them both together, until the soft breaths leaving spit-slicked lips turn into quiet, pleasured moans.

"You can fuck me properly now," Simon says faintly, in between leisurely kisses. "If you want. No rush."

Markus laughs, moves his mouth down to suck at Simon’s neck. "No rush?" he asks, all mock-innocence, and Simon is so hot and tight around him that all he wants to do is _move_ , but he's willing to hold off a few more moments if it means he gets to tease Simon just a little bit longer. Simon keens, fingers squeezing tight when Markus teasingly bucks his hips.

"In your own time," he quips, and he’d sound remarkably calm if his voice didn’t betray him by cracking at the end.

“Alright,” Markus murmurs, and then he’s moving, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, and the friction feels so fucking good that his arms nearly give out. Simon moans, head falling back to expose a white flash of throat, and Markus can’t possibly be blamed for moving forward and sinking his teeth into unmarked skin.

“ _God_ ,” Simon chokes out, arching under him, “ _Please!_ ”

Markus groans against his neck, tongue licking over skin salty with sweat, and starts to move. It doesn’t take long to build a rhythm, slow but deep, hips pressing against Simon’s ass as he bottoms out and _grinds_. He ducks his head, presses kisses everywhere he can reach, and Simon’s gasping, hiccupping moans falling freely from his mouth as he rolls his hips to meet Markus’ thrusts.

“Markus,” he stutters, and Markus swallows the rest of whatever he was going to say with a kiss, tongue sliding against Simon’s and rendering him speechless. He can barely think, barely process anything that isn’t how fucking perfect Simon feels under him, around him. His hips snap forward of their own accord, and the noise that Simon makes sounds like a sob tinged with relief.

“ _Yes_ ,” he gasps, legs tightening where they’re wrapped around Markus’s waist, “Again, Markus, please – _ah!_ ”

And Markus finds he couldn’t refuse Simon even if he tried. He goes faster, rolling his hips again and again, every sharp thrust punching beautiful sounds from the man below him. The bed creaks underneath them, old wood protesting loudly, and it would make him laugh if he wasn’t so fixated on Simon, on how he bites at his bottom lip and his fingers curl into fists, a litany of sweet gasps and moans filling the room. At some point, Simon pulls his hand free to cover his mouth, biting down on the skin of his thumb as if to keep those noises hidden, and Markus shakes his head, grabs his wrist and pins both of Simon’s hands back down on the mattress.

“Wanna hear you,” he manages, “You’re so fucking hot, Si.”

Simon whines, high-pitched and perfect, mouth falling open as Markus grinds into him again, pressing himself as close to Simon as he can get. Markus lowers his head, lips brushing against Simon’s ear as he follows a sudden hunch.

“So beautiful, Simon,” he murmurs, grip tightening around his wrists, “So good for me.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Simon moans weakly, hips bucking, and Markus laughs, breathless and exhilarated, one hand sliding down between their bodies to take Simon in hand as he keeps Simon’s wrists pinned with the other.

“Should’ve known you’d like being talked to,” he says, pitching his voice low, and kisses Simon’s jaw. “Do you like it, when I tell you how pretty you are?”

“You’re gonna kill me,” Simon says desperately, cheeks flushed red, and Markus grins, sucks another bruise into Simon’s neck.

“You are though,” he says, “So pretty. So fucking lovely, taking me so well.” It earns him another whine, and Markus knows he’s not going to last much longer. He can feel that familiar pleasure building, heat coursing through his veins, and redoubles his efforts, fucking into Simon fast and hard as he murmurs praise into sweat-slicked skin.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Markus,” Simon chants, hands twisting uselessly in Markus’ grasp, “I’m – fuck, I _can’t_ , I -”

Markus stifles a moan, catches Simon’s lips in a clumsy, messy kiss. “C’mon,” he mumbles, quickening the pace of his hand on Simon’s cock, “Come on, beautiful. You’re so good, Si. Come for me.”

Simon curses, back arching off of the mattress, and comes with a silent scream, eyes squeezing shut. And Markus wants to watch, wants to take in every flicker of pleasure that goes across Simon’s face, but the feel of Simon clenching tight around him is more than enough to push him over the edge. He comes with a strangled sound, burying his face in Simon’s shoulder, and it takes the last of his strength not to collapse completely. He holds himself up on his forearms, letting go of Simon’s wrists, and tries to catch his breath. Simon moves his hands to his back, stroking warm skin as he presses his lips to Markus’s jaw. They lie there for a moment, trading lazy kisses and soft touches, until Markus makes himself move, pulling out as gently as he can. He presses an apologetic kiss to Simon’s cheek at the soft sound of protest he makes, before sinking boneless into the mattress next to him. Simon turns then, starts to curl towards him, and Markus hums, stops him with a hand to his shoulder.

“Two seconds,” he says quickly, dispelling the sudden concern in Simon’s eyes as quickly as it appears, “I need to clean us up first. Because if you curl up to me like that I guarantee you I will fall asleep and we’ll both hate me when we wake up stuck together tomorrow.”

Simon huffs a quiet laugh, presses a kiss to his shoulder. “Bathroom is just next door, to the left,” he murmurs, and lies back against the sheets, stretching like a satisfied cat when Markus forces himself to his feet. He’s beautiful, fucked out and sleepy, and Markus has to pause for a moment, take in the way his lashes brush against his cheeks and his lips curl into a soft smile. Then, blue eyes blink open, and his smile grows when he sees Markus there, staring down at him.

“Did you get lost?” he teases, voice slightly hoarse, and Markus huffs a laugh, leans over and kisses him softly, chastely.

“Be right back,” he murmurs, and lets his fingers trail over Simon’s thigh as he pulls away and leaves the room. He disposes of the condom, finds soft flannels in the cupboard under the bathroom sink and quickly runs one under warm water. Simon has his eyes closed again when he comes back, but he’s not yet asleep; hums appreciatively when he gently wipes the come off his abdomen.

“Just drop it on the floor,” he mutters drowsily, hand grabbing Markus’s wrist when he goes to move away, and Markus laughs softly, does as he’s told and drops the damp flannel onto the wooden floorboards. Simon tugs at his arm, pulls him back into bed and under cool sheets, and curls up against him the moment Markus lies down properly, head resting on his chest.

“Hello,” Markus murmurs, nosing at soft blonde hair, and Simon sighs in response, draws mindless patterns on Markus’s skin with his fingers.

“I’m glad I found you,” he says then, voice barely above a whisper, and Markus wraps an arm around him and pulls him closer.

“Technically, I found you,” he points out, and Simon snorts, half-heartedly flicks at his chest.

“You know what I mean.”

Markus hums, reaches down to intertwine their fingers and gives in to the enticing softness of the bed as he lets his eyes flutter closed.

“I’m glad you found me too.”

* * *

 

Simon wakes to the sun.

Usually, if this happens, it annoys him – means he forgot to shut the curtains and has therefore probably woken up earlier than he needed to. But today, as he blearily blinks his eyes open and takes in soft light spilling into his room, he finds he doesn’t mind at all. He smiles, lets fingers glide across cool, white sheets, reaching to the other side of the bed.

Empty.

Simon shifts, brow furrowing as he sits up, and he braces himself for that sickening drop in his stomach he’s gotten closely acquainted to over the last few years, but then –

“Damn, you’re awake.” It’s the voice he wants to hear, teasing fondness coming from the old chair Simon keeps by the door as an inefficient clothes horse, and Simon can’t help the relieved sigh that leaves him.

Markus moves, sketchbook gently snapping shut, and the mattress dips as he sits down beside him.

“Wanted to finish my drawing before you woke up, but you beat me to it,” he says softly, lips curled in that gentle smile that for some reason always makes Simon’s stomach flutter. He leans over, brushes an unruly strand of hair out of Simon’s eyes. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You didn’t,” Simon replies, and it’s true. He lets the old, familiar anxiety fade away, knows it doesn’t belong here, not in this moment, not with this man. Markus lifts his hand, brushes his knuckles over Simon’s cheek, and Simon leans forward to kiss him, because he wants to and because he can.

“Good morning to you too,” Markus murmurs, voice more gravelly than usual; remnants of sleep. Simon lets his mind wander, lets the optimistic, hopeful part of his brain that has been steadily taking over these past few months suggest the possibility of hearing that voice every morning, and revels in the fact that it doesn’t scare him. He meets Markus’s eyes, finds forest green and warm, ocean blue, and lets the simple truth exist, unspoken but real.

_You’re in love with him._

“You look thoughtful,” Markus murmurs, and Simon ducks his head, laughs quietly.

“All good,” he reassures him, and Markus seems to understand that this isn’t something to talk about, at least not yet, because he doesn’t pry. He does hold his hand, brings Simon’s fingers up to his mouth to kiss them, and then places his sketchbook on Simon’s lap.

“You never did get to see them,” he explains, “So you can now, if you want.” He smiles then, and there’s no nervousness, none of the hesitance Simon remembers seeing when they first met. This is art Markus wants to share – private, still, but open to him.

Simon opens the sketchbook. He does so carefully, like it could crumble to dust in his hands, and slowly visits page after page, tracing pencil drawings and messy lines with his fingertips. He lingers on those of shy smiles and delicate hands and coffee mugs – things he recognises despite the lack of explicit details, things he understands. Markus just sits next to him, quietly watches him discover every secret, every moment he’d chosen to immortalise on paper, until eventually, there are no pages left to flick through. He reaches the end, reaches the last drawing, still unfinished. It’s of him – Many of them are, but with this one, there’s no ambiguity about it. He’s lying tangled in soft sheets, hair mussed and one hand resting next to his face, fingers curling towards his cheek. The sheets pool around his waist, leaving his chest bare, and Simon absentmindedly trails his fingers down his neck, pressing where he knows Markus left marks. They’re included in the sketch, but Markus has added to them, has drawn rose petals sticking to his skin and scattered across the bed, and it should be cheesy but somehow it isn’t, it’s just beautiful.

Simon swallows, takes a breath. “These. These are amazing,” he says eventually, and his voice catches but he doesn’t care. “They’re – God. Markus. Thank you.”

“You like them?” It’s a question, which is ridiculous, and Simon shakes his head. He puts the sketchbook down on his bedside table and rests his hand on the back of Markus’s neck, dragging him down until their lips meet.

“I love them,” he says, and the words are mumbled and unclear but Markus hears him anyway. He kisses him back, strong brown hands finding his shoulders and pushing him down easily, and Simon feels light-headed and overwhelmed but safe, all at once.

They let the morning pass them by; lose themselves in each other until well after noon. Tangled in Simon’s sheets, they trade quiet noises of pleasure and gentle touches and whispered affection, and when Simon shudders apart in Markus’s arms, he thinks back to those early days in his shop, thinks of flowers and different coloured eyes and brown skin and the how everything suddenly made a lot more sense to him. He thinks of first confessions and conversations that never seemed to end, thinks of that corner where an artist would sit and sketch, lost to everyone else but him. Markus kisses him, grounds him in the present, and Simon laughs, breathless and hopelessly in love, and thinks of the secret garden that bloomed and bloomed, just for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please message me on [tumblr](https://farouchedoncjevie.tumblr.com/)  
> if you want to chat or if you'd like me to write anything in particular! i love talking about simarkus honestly i could do it for years!


End file.
